


Esopus Creek

by shaycat



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Cancer, Depression, Established Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, It's more hopeful than it sounds from these tags, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 08, Season/Series 08, Suicidal Thoughts, Terminal Illnesses, There's lots of fly fishing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaycat/pseuds/shaycat
Summary: An eighty-year-old widower by the name of Eugene Skinner ventures out one September day in upstate New York for his usual morning activity - fly fishing. His leisurely hobby is interrupted by a bickering pair nearby in the river. That chance encounter with Greg House and James Wilson changes the course of his life.Told from the perspective of the last friend the boys make on their final road trip.
Relationships: Greg House & James Wilson, Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 76





	Esopus Creek

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine got me, folks.
> 
> I finally gave in and watched the last season of House after putting it off for years and years. This was my first ever fandom and it was such a joy to return to it once again. I couldn't stop wondering over the post-canon, so this is my attempt to come to terms with it. It is a strange mix of lots of things, including my own experiences with losing a loved one to cancer. Please excuse any medical and/or trout-related inaccuracies.

** Esopus Creek **

Eugene’s memory isn’t what it used to be these days. After eight decades of life, the little moments have begun to slip away more easily. He knows the reality he faces, even without the not-so helpful reminders from his assorted children that seem to happen on a now weekly basis. After long months of strained conversations, he had folded to their demands. He would leave his remote home in the Catskills and move in with his eldest so he could be looked after. The entire concept still stings. He is the first to admit that he is more forgetful and much slower, but the idea that Johnny will be his keeper forevermore is laughable. His memory isn’t so bad yet that he has forgotten his son’s many tragically dead turtles from childhood still buried in the backyard in neat little rows. Johnny has always been the most careless child of his whole brood, especially when it comes to caring for anyone other than himself. Unfortunately for Eugene, his eldest is the only one who had agreed to his terms. Term, really. All he had asked for was one more season spent at Esopus Creek.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re making me tromp through this frigid water. I have a leg injury, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard.”

Eugene’s peaceful rhythm is broken by the voices of two men bickering. His glance up reveals an unusual sight. Both men are kitted out in brand new gear. It’s obvious, even to his old eyes. That’s not so out of the ordinary. Lots of people drop a pretty penny on top of the line equipment to try their hand at fly fishing only to pack it in after a weekend of frustration. The unusual piece of the picture is the man that currently lags behind. His hand grips a cane, which sloshes against the current with each further step into the water.

The two men set up a few hundred feet from him, but their voices carry downwind to him as easily as the river water flows.

“I bet you fifty bucks you last less than an hour. No way are you the _River Runs Through It_ type. You may have Brad Pitt’s boyish looks, but there’s no way you have his ability to stand pensively.”

“Easy bet. You’re the one that can’t stand for an hour.”

“I’ll just let the water take me away. Drowning has got to be nicer than all this.”

“Just give it a chance, House.”

Eugene filters the conversation out. He’s sure they won’t last an hour. People that are new to fly fishing often find themselves bored very quickly. He resumes his previous rhythm and focuses on his wrist movement and the water. He soon forgets about the tourists that are dipping their toes into the sport he has loved for well over half a century. All he hears is the rush of water and all he sees is his line flicking back and forth in the soothing pattern he perfected long ago.

“Excuse me, sir!”

Eugene blinks to awareness again and sees the younger man up-river waving at him. Some time has passed since he last took notice of them. The man with the cane is now perched on the river’s edge. His leg and cane are stretched out on the rocks. He is watching the man still in the water with an intensity that Eugene can’t parse from this distance.

“Yes?”

“I think I got one?” The man sounds apprehensive. He wasn’t expecting to actually catch a fish, Eugene guesses. Most people new to the river don’t think that far ahead. It’s not usually a problem, since very few first timers actually land a trout.

“Barb-less hook?” He calls. The man shrugs in response. Eugene sighs and reels his line in. There’s nothing worse than people that don’t know what they’re doing, especially with a live fish on the line. He hurries to the shallower water and walks up to where the man is spread out on the river’s edge. He hands his own rod to the man, who reaches up to grasp it carefully.

“This is a catch and release river.” He wades back into the water. “You have to let it go.”

“That’s fine. Just not sure how to do it, is all.” The man explains nervously. Now that Eugene is closer, he sees that the man struggling with the trout is clearly unwell. Eugene has witnessed enough friends and family members pass during his long life to recognize the signs of a body breaking down. He saves the strict lecture he was about to launch into about responsible techniques and knowing if your lure is barbed or not.

“First time?”

“Is it that obvious?”

Eugene nods serenely and instructs the man to bring the fish in gently. He sees the trout a handful of feet away, swimming angrily against the pull of the line. As the fish nears, he explains the process to safely release it.

“Dip your hands in the water. Never handle a fish with dry hands.” The man does a good job of maintaining his handle on the rod while dipping first one hand and then the other into the river. “It’s best to remove the hook while the fish is in the water, so that’s how you’re going to do it. Do you have pliers?”

The man shakes his head. Eugene picks up his own pair from the bag nestled against his ribs. He hands them over. “Don’t drop them in, okay?”

The man chuckles. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Once you pull the fish in, you’re going to use your free hand to grab the lure with the pliers. Back the hook out of its mouth. Do it without holding the fish if you can. Otherwise, grab under it’s belly carefully. This one’s been on the line long enough that it’s already stressed.”

He watches intently as the man tries to follow his directions. It’s a good effort but the fish isn’t being the most cooperative participant at the moment. He silently takes the rod from the man to help speed the process. He can move more quickly with both hands free.

“Grab it carefully. Don’t squeeze. Keep it in the water.”

The man does and finally manages to get the pliers on the small piece of metal. It’s a tricky catch. The colorful lure is situated at the back of the mouth. Most new anglers struggle to free the lure in that position. He usually suggests they just cut the line so the fish can work it out on its own. But this man has a finesse to his movements, despite his nerves. He gets the lure out without any difficulty now that the fish is immobile in his grasp. Good hand-eye coordination, he notes distantly.

“Hold the fish facing upstream while it revives now.”

He looks startled at the creature in his hand. “Did I kill it?”

“No, son. You’ve done good. Just give it a second.”

The man watches with trepidation. After a few moments, the fish begins to wiggle. He hears a sigh from the man beside him over the rush of water that flows past them.

“Let go.”

The man does and the fish speeds away from his outstretched hand. Eugene looks up at the fisherman beside him. He reaches a hand out between them.

“Congratulations on your first catch.”

“Thank you.” He shakes Eugene’s hand. It’s wet and slightly slimy from the fish. A smile is spread across his face. His sallow complexion is still there, but for a brief moment Eugene can see a brightness in the younger man. “I’m Wilson. My unhelpful associate over there is Greg.”

“Eugene Skinner. Glad I could help.” He hands the rod back to Wilson. “Keep the pliers. You’ll need them for your next one.”

Wilson looks down at the silver tool in his other hand. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“Sure you can. I’ve got plenty.”

“I might not get much use out of them.”

Eugene wonders if that’s because he doesn’t think he’ll catch a fish again or if it’s because of his illness. He suspects it’s the latter. Either way, his own time here on the river is dwindling down, too. He won’t get much use of them come November after he leaves the Catskills. Maybe Wilson will be here longer than he will.

“That’s alright. Better to have and not need and all that. I’m here most mornings. You can return them when you’re ready.”

He begins his slow walk to the river’s edge so he can retrieve his own rod from Greg. He hadn’t noticed any movement from the shore while instructing Wilson on how to release the trout, but the other man is standing now, watching them with his keen gaze. He holds his cane in one hand and Eugene’s rod in the other. His grip on both is tight.

Greg hands the rod over and nods. Eugene accepts it as a tiny sign of gratitude, although he’s unsure if that’s truly what it meant. He totters carefully across the slick stones to return to his small bend in the river. Once resituated in the comfort of the rushing water, he lets his thoughts float away. His rhythm returns easily from years of practice. The next time he looks back up river, the two men are gone.

* * *

Three days after he encountered the two men in the river, he sees them again. This time, he is seated behind the counter of his bait and tackle shop. His eyes are straining as he works on a lure under the magnifying stand in front of him. The bell at the front of the shop tinkles as the door is opened. He peers up over his glasses and sees the distinctive pair enter the dusky shop.

“Welcome.” He greets them warmly as they close the door with another chime of the bell. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Wilson walks up to his workstation and holds out the small pair of pliers. “I’m returning these to you.”

“Done with them so soon?”

The man rubs at the back of his neck and his gaze drops to the floor. “I think it was beginner’s luck. Best to go out while I’m on top.”

Eugene places his tools down and looks between the two men. Greg lurches from shelf to shelf, examining the tidbits he has around the shop. He stops to pay particular attention to the long case of expensive fishing lures he has for sale.

“I suppose you weren’t so lucky the second time?”

Wilson looks up with a grimace. “We didn’t make it back out, unfortunately.” 

“Ah. Well, yes, that makes sense. It’s hard to catch trout unless you actually trudge out into the water.”

Wilson’s eyes slide over to Greg, who is still focused on the lures instead of the conversation. “I don’t think we’re suited for it.”

Eugene disagrees. Wilson had done a pretty excellent job on his first attempt at a catch and release. He looks over to the cane in Greg’s hand and then back to the man in front of him. “Because of his leg or your illness?” He asks.

He sees Greg’s focus snap to him from the corner of his eye. Wilson stares at him too for a moment before stuttering out a reply. “Uh—well—both, I guess.”

Eugene nods to himself and then hobbles up from his chair. He carefully picks his way across the shop to a distant corner. He roots around for a minute before finding the items he’s searching for. He returns to the counter to find Greg is now much closer to Wilson. His stare is intense. The man clearly has some opinions, but he hasn’t done much to make them known. Eugene isn’t too bothered.

“About 400 yards down from where I was the other day. It’s shallower and the current slows because of the bend. Take these.” He pushes the two old fold up chairs across the counter. “The fish don’t mind if you’re sitting down or not.”

Wilson’s hands trace over the fabric of the chair closest to him. “I can’t keep taking things from you.”

“Consider it a rental.”

“Thank you.” Wilson says. He gathers the chairs up in his arms and turns to leave. Greg hangs back to continue his assessment of Eugene. “Come on, House.”

* * *

Eugene is back at the river the next morning. After a few hours of blissful peace, he hears a commotion from down river. He turns to see Greg and Wilson enter the clearing beyond the bend. They each have a folding chair slung over a shoulder. Wilson is dressed for fly fishing again, but Greg is not. Instead, he’s clad in jeans and an old grey crewneck sweater. Obviously only one of them will be in the water today. Eugene smiles to himself, glad at least that Wilson is giving it another go.

Over the remainder of the morning, he continually looks back at the couple. Yes, he’s quite sure they’re a couple now. People don’t waste entire weekday mornings in September to watch someone else fish unless they really love the sport. And Greg is clearly not a fan of fly fishing. Even from this distance, he can hear the gruff man shout occasional taunts as Wilson struggles with his line. It’s the most words he’s heard from Wilson’s companion since their first encounter. Wilson lobs back his own retorts, seemingly content with the jibes that Greg throws his way.

“I’m hungry!”

Wilson groans loudly. “I told you to bring a snack.”

“I did. And I ate it an hour ago.”

“Next time I’ll tell you to bring two.”

“Next time!”

“Yes, next time. It’s relaxing. I like it.”

“I can’t believe this. You sailed straight past all the best bucket list items and landed on what a ninety year old man would want to do to celebrate Arbor Day.”

“Shut up.”

“We could be in Mexico right now doing lines off a stripper’s ass, but no, you want to commune with nature.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“The least you could do is catch me a fish as a snack.”

“House. They’re not food.”

He hears a moan from the shore line.

Eugene packs up and leaves for the day not much longer after that conversation. His last glimpse of the pair before he walks back through the forest is a surprise. Greg has made his way into the water after all. His jeans are rolled up to just under his knee and he is standing beside the folding chair Wilson is perched in near the center of the river. His cane is absent, still hooked over the back of the chair left on the edge of the water. He has all his weight braced on Wilson’s shoulder instead. The men are looking at one another, the line forgotten in the water, slowly dragging backwards with the current.

* * *

Eugene awakes to the sound of the bell over the door. He had fallen asleep in the armchair behind the counter again. It’s a good thing robberies are unheard of in their small town, otherwise his business would have been ransacked long ago. His eyes swim as he blinks to full awareness. He sees the unique gait of Greg from across the shop.

“Where’s your better half?”

Greg ignores the question. Eugene stays settled in the comfortable chair. It has formed to his body over its many years of use, which makes it both infinitely relaxing and also frustrating to get out of after he’s been seated for too long. He watches as the man stalks around the shop. His eyes glance over the display case of his best lures again. He touches items intermittently, raising weights from their boxes and feeling the heft in the palm of his hand. He spins one of the Van Staal reels as he wanders by it. Eventually, his looping step lands him squarely in front of the counter.

“Find everything you’re looking for?”

“Know anywhere nearby the river for sale?”

Eugene blinks in surprise. “Open land, you mean?”

Greg shakes his head minutely. “A cabin or something.”

Eugene racks his brain. He’s not the best person to be asking such a question. For one, his memory isn’t all the best. It’s a miracle he even remembers Greg and Wilson’s names, honestly. Nothing immediately comes to mind, so he reaches under the register where he slid the most recent copy of the Saugerties Times that had been delivered to the shop earlier in the week. He flips to the local property listings.

“Best I can offer. No memory for local gossip these days, I’m afraid.” He hands the paper to Greg.

“Thanks.”

The man staggers out of the shop without a moment’s hesitation.

* * *

Eugene hears from one of his regular customers the following week that Greg and Wilson are now residents of their small community.

“Neely Dwight’s property finally sold.”

“Is that so?”

Monty nods. “Yep. Glenn told me he brokered the deal on Thursday for two guys that have been staying at the motel for the past week. They bought it in cash, can you believe?”

Eugene shrugs. “I bet it was a steal. That place has been vacant for ages, hasn’t it?”

He has to ask in the form of a question to make sure he isn’t misremembering. He can’t recall ever knowing someone by the name of Neely Dwight.

“Yeah, about a year now. I think Neely’s family was getting Tommy to check in every so often to make sure it’s not falling apart. They live out in Iowa or someplace like that now. Can’t believe they paid full price for it.”

He hands the newly purchased tippet over to Monty with his change. “Well, I’m glad someone’s moving in. Seems like most people are headed the opposite direction these days.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

* * *

“Dad? Do you want me to get you something else?”

Eugene looks up from his plate to see his daughter’s concerned look. He sighs and picks up his fork.

“No, honey. This is wonderful. Thank you.”

He eats the meal and lets his daughter’s idle chatter wash over him. Veronica is his youngest and was always the talker in the family. She has made the hour drive to cook him a Sunday dinner every week for as long as he can remember. Longer, even. He wishes for a minute that he was leaving the Catskills to move in with her instead of Johnny, but knows that would end in disaster. She would talk him to death within the first month. At least with Johnny he’ll have some peace and quiet. Although he’ll probably have to remind the boy to feed him.

“Did you hear someone bought that place by the river?”

Veronica looks at him confused. “Which place?”

“That one. You know—Nelly someone used to live there.” He says. He still can’t remember who it was.

“Neely? Neely Dwight?” She asks. He nods. “No, I hadn’t. Do you know who bought it?”

“Yeah, actually. A couple I met out on the river. They seem nice.”

Her eyebrows inch up. “A couple fishing together? That’s pretty unusual. I thought the only reason you took up fishing was to get out of the house and away from mom and us kids.”

He smiles. He can still remember that running joke in their family, at least, even all these years later. Joyce had hated fishing almost as much as she had loved Eugene. She had accompanied him to the river only once. An adept klutz her whole life, she had quickly fallen in and sworn on all her dead relatives that she would never again step foot near a trout unless it was frying in the kitchen. They had worked out a deal instead. She had taken up pottery, an interest she actually enjoyed and excelled at, and they traded weekends partaking in their respective hobbies. One of them would mind the kids while the other left for some peaceful time away. They had continued this pattern up until Joyce had died, nearly twenty years ago. Now nothing stopped Eugene from going to the river whenever he pleased except for the weather and his own body’s failings.

“Well, Greg doesn’t seem much like the angler type. Wilson is the fisherman.”

“Greg and Wilson, huh?” Veronica asks. Her eyebrows are even higher now.

“Yes. Those are their names. Shocked I can remember?” He quips.

“No, Dad. Just pleased you have some new friends.”

He can feel the unsaid words between them. She’s thinking about Rickie and so is he.

 _Rickie_. Of all the memories that he is losing, none of them involve his youngest son. And although it pains him to remember, he is glad that Rickie lives on in his memory. His son had left town in search of a more accepting place after years of quietly enduring so much pain and harassment for being queer. Eugene and Joyce had been blind to the suffering. It was a marvel that in such a small community there could still be secrets. Unfortunately, Rickie had done an excellent job of hiding the reality from his family. He moved to New York City and they lost touch, whether by design or by accident Eugene still wasn’t sure. Either way, they had been left wondering what had become of their Rickie. Before they could reconnect, life cruelly intervened.

A quick phone call from Bellevue Hospital.

A small ceremony in the city surrounded by friends and lovers they had never met.

His baby boy the first of them to be buried in the family plot.

They hadn’t been there for Rickie enough during his short lifetime, so Eugene does whatever he can now to make amends. He blames himself. Always had and always will. It is a fact of his life, just as unchangeable as the direction the river flows. So, if being kind to a sick man struggling with a fish in the middle of Esopus Creek is a small step toward balancing the scales of life, he would happily do it.

“They seem nice.” He repeats.

“I’m sure they are.” Veronica agrees quietly. “Maybe you should bring them a housewarming gift.”

Eugene hums in thought.

“Maybe something mom made?” She suggests with a gesture to the many glazed pieces that dot the windowsill behind her.

“She would probably like that. God knows I don’t dust them enough for her tastes.”

Veronica laughs. “I don’t know anyone that dusted enough for her tastes, Dad.”

* * *

Eugene knocks on the heavy door. It hurts his gnarled knuckles to do so, but the doorbell is obviously broken. It hangs off the side of the door frame from a single frayed wire. He looks at the old place and tries to remember the woman that once lived here. All he sees are signs of the new tenants. A motorcycle parked in the gravel driveway and deconstructed cardboard boxes leaning behind a rocking chair on the front porch. Veronica waits patiently in her car, caught up in something interesting on her phone. He had convinced her to quickly drive him over before she left for the evening. He hears heavy footsteps from inside the sprawling cabin and steps back patiently.

Wilson opens the door and smiles at him. “Hello, Eugene. What brings you to our doorstep?”

“I brought a gift. Wouldn’t be right to join the community without a little welcome wagon to celebrate.” He lifts the small box in his arms to show the proffered gift.

“Come in, come in.” Wilson says, throwing the door open and inviting him inside. “Please excuse the mess.”

Eugene laughs. “Please. I’m an eighty year old widower. You don’t know mess until you’ve seen my place.” He hands over the gift as he is guided into the living room and towards the couch in front of the stone fireplace. This furniture looks like it’s been here for thirty years. He thinks it’s a bit floral for the two men that own the place, but he isn’t one to judge. He wonders vaguely if the house came furnished and if he’s been here before. The place feels familiar in a way that is bothersome to him. He would ask one of his kids about it if they wouldn’t immediately consider it a red flag and another sign that he needs to leave.

“I’ve already accepted two gifts from you. You’re too kind.” Wilson takes the gift without further fuss. He opens the small box and smiles. “This is beautiful.”

“My wife made it.”

“Oh, Eugene. I can’t accept this. It must be precious to you.” Wilson looks at the baby blue vase like it will shatter if he blinks too hard.

He waves the comment away. “I’ve got plenty. Joyce made enough pots and vases to fill the Smithsonian by the end. I should have started giving them away years ago. She wouldn’t have wanted me to keep them to myself. She was proud of them and they aren’t doing any good sitting around my house where no one can see them.”

Wilson cradles it carefully. “Thank you.” He rises to place it gently on the fireplace.

“Where’s your better half?”

Wilson smiles and looks at his shoes. He’s a bit pale, but he seems energized. Eugene hopes it’s a good day. He knows how nice it is to have a good day after a string of bad ones. He wonders how sick Wilson is and how long he’s known about his illness.

“Late night run to the grocery store. Probably buying Oreos and beer.” He rolls his eyes.

“That doesn’t sound like enough food for two growing boys.” He jokes. “You need to tell him to get milk, too.”

“Ha! I’ll tell him you said so. He says space is limited on the motorcycle so he’s got to prioritize for the most important things.”

Eugene is surprised that Greg is using such a small vehicle, but then he didn’t see any other options in the driveway. The joke about junk food and beer is probably less funny when it’s coming from a man with a mobility impairment that’s forced to go shopping every other day. He makes a spur of the moment decision.

“My daughter takes me grocery shopping on Sundays before she cooks me a nice dinner. Can we take you and Greg along next time? Lots of room in her Land Rover.”

Wilson smiles kindly at him. “We aren’t completely inept. I know it seems it from the fishing and the general state of us, but I promise we know how to do basic tasks when push comes to shove.”

“Would it help if I said my daughter won’t buy me Oreos? We could do a secret trade in the backseat. You’d be doing me a favor, really.”

Wilson laughs. “I’ll broach the subject, but no promises. House isn’t the best at accepting help.”

Eugene figured that much out on his own. “Well, you know where to find me. Let me know either way.” He levers himself up off the worn couch to head for the exit.

“Can I ask you something?”

He turns to look back at Wilson. The man is gazing at the small vase on the mantle, not at him.

“Sure.”

“Forgive me if this is inappropriate.” Wilson hesitates.

“Don’t worry. My memory is shit. I’ll forget it by tomorrow.” He can see the corner of Wilson’s mouth perk up in a small smile.

“How did you go on after you lost your wife?”

People don’t ask questions like that because it’s a fun conversation starter. They ask because they are facing the matter themselves. His lingering questions about Wilson’s health are gone as quick as they came. He won’t be getting better. He barely knows the man, but the realization is still a hard one to face. He sighs and leans against the wall nearest him.

“Do you want the answer I told my children to make them feel better or the real answer?”

Wilson turns to him and shrugs.

“I told them what they wanted to hear. I said that I was okay because she was in a better place. And one day, if I was lucky, I would get to be with her again. They brought me a lot of food and stayed with me for a long time. Too long, honestly. They monitored my moods and offered to go fishing with me even though all of them hate fishing. I went to work and said hello to all the customers and accepted their condolences until I had everyone convinced I wasn’t going to off myself.”

“And the real answer?”

Eugene looks at the thin gold band on his weathered left hand. It’s been almost twenty years since he held Joyce’s hand in his own. He feels every minute of that distance.

“She made me promise. On her deathbed, she grabbed my hand with a strength she hadn’t had for months and she made me swear I wouldn’t come right after her. She wanted me to wait a year and see how I felt then.”

The silence rests between them as they stand on the two sides of the room, each lost in thought.

“Was she right? Did you change your mind after a year?”

Eugene gestures at himself, showing off the proof. Wilson chuckles.

“Of course she was right. She always was—and I don’t mean in the ‘ _happy wife, happy life_ ’ way and all that crap—I mean that she knew me better than anyone else. She knew that I would have given up if she hadn’t forced me to find another path. Now that my memory is going, it’s harder. I can’t look back on all the good times as easily anymore. My kids want me to leave our home and the creek so they can keep better track of me. But, even with all that, she was right.”

Wilson nods. “Thank you again for the lovely gift. It’s even more meaningful now.”

“Don’t go selling it on Ebay, okay? Or if you do, at least wait until after I croak.”

Wilson laughs, a full sound from his thin frame. “Don’t worry. I’m going long before you do.”

Eugene bows his head. He hates to hear the certainty in Wilson’s voice. He feels the pain of losing Joyce and Rickie lodge in his chest like it’s a brand and knows that all too soon Greg will feel that for Wilson.

“Let me know about next Sunday.” He says quietly before he turns to leave.

“We will.” Wilson is still focused on the baby blue vase on the mantle.

He closes the door firmly on his way out.

* * *

“Eugene!” Wilson shouts in greeting from down river. He waves back at the man and spots Greg slowly trudging along after him, folding chair in hand. He returns his focus to his own section of the river and continues to cast his line back and forth. After a few minutes he can hear the crunch of river rocks on the shore as someone approaches. He hears a muttered curse and knows then that it is Greg.

“Heard you’re an Oreo man.”

Eugene looks over, his movements fluid despite the interruption. He’s been an angler forever. He can keep pace and conversation at the same time.

“That’s a truth about me, yes.”

Greg inspects him with narrowed eyes and then nods tightly. “Wilson would love to go shopping with you on Sunday.”

“And you?”

Greg huffs in exasperation. “I’m sure he’ll strong-arm me into coming, too.” 

Eugene laughs. “He seems the sort—one of those dangerous and threatening types. Don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Are we talking about the same Wilson?”

Eugene looks down river and the floppy haired man in question. From this distance he could be a model in the Orvis catalog. His form is even improving. He’s a natural.

“I mean, he drives a motorcycle. I’m not going to mess with him. I’m elderly. He’d definitely kick my ass.”

Greg rolls his eyes. He suspects that’s as close to a laugh as he’s going to get from this man. “Yeah, he would. He’s certainly kicked mine a time or two. No qualms about beating up on the handicapped.” He raises his cane as if Eugene didn’t already know.

“We better watch our backs, you and I.”

“You already suck at it. You have your back turned to him at this very moment.”

“The weaker wildebeest always gets picked off first. At least I can still run a bit.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll believe it when I see it, old timer.”

Eugene laughs again and shakes his head. He hears Greg move back down river toward where Wilson is stationed. He calls over his shoulder that the shopping trip usually starts around one o’clock. He hears Greg grunt in acknowledgement.

Later in the morning he hears some more bickering from down river and then a surprised hoot from Wilson after he lands another trout. Eugene smiles to himself when he hears Greg’s surly reply.

“I said I wanted a salmon this time!”

* * *

On Sunday he tells Veronica that they need to make a stop before the grocery store.

“A stop where?” She asks, her hands on the gear shift as she prepares to back out of the drive.

“At the place by the river. Where Greg and Wilson live. They need a ride to the store. Told them we’d take them.” His explanation is met with a suspicious glare.

“Neely Dwight’s house?”

“Well, no. It’s Greg and Wilson’s house now.” He says assuredly. “Come on, I told them to expect us at one.”

“Dad.”

He knows that tone of voice. She’s annoyed with him. “I know that you know where it is. You drove me there last week to drop off their gift.”

Veronica’s eyes slide to the clock on her dash and she sighs loudly. “All right.”

He can hear her grumble from across the car as they drive the ten minutes along the winding roads that take them to the cabin. He listens to the music on the radio instead of bothering her further. They’re currently playing some jazz piece that he’s heard before but can’t place. He realizes as they come to a stop in the gravel parking area that Veronica doesn’t like jazz music and that she’s put it on just for him. He feels a swell of pride and affection for her in that instant. He reaches over to squeeze her hand.

“Be right back.” He gingerly gets out of the Land Rover and approaches the cabin. Before he can make it up the steps, the front door bangs open to reveal Greg on the threshold.

“Liberace, your limo is here!” He calls melodramatically.

“And personal valet,” Eugene adds happily. “Don’t forget the best part.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Wilson says from inside. He is rushing to collect a jacket from the hook in the front entryway. He emerges and throws it on. Greg hobbles down the few steps from the porch and leaves him to lock the door.

“Shotgun!” Greg shouts once he is halfway to the car. By the time he and Wilson get there, Greg is safely in the passenger seat and chatting happily with Veronica. Eugene settles into the back beside Wilson as the conversation continues.

“—he was my number one fan, but he’s actually a psycho holding me hostage while forcing me to write another bestseller. I’ve tried to escape again and again, but he always outsmarts me.”

“Gotta get your timeline right. James Caan didn’t get the cane until the end of the movie,” Veronica states simply before glancing in the rear-view. “Everyone buckled up?”

“Yes, mom.” Greg whines from up front.

Eugene smothers his laugh and glances over at Wilson. He looks at Greg bemusedly. He is a bit worse for wear today. Maybe just tired, he speculates. Although he knows that it’s most likely more than just that. He looks back towards the front of the car, sure Wilson doesn’t want to be inspected like a medical oddity. “I see you’ve already become fast friends with Veronica, then.”

“She’s my ticket out of this fishing hellhole.”

“Thank you for driving us. We really appreciate it.” Wilson says kindly over his partner’s quip.

“It’s not a problem. I’m not a car service though. No runs to the dry cleaners, okay?”

They all agree to not add more chores to their collective list, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Before too long, they are at the small grocery store in the center of town. They all take their time emerging from the vehicle. Each of them requires a special bit of care. Greg uses the handle overhead and his cane to brace his bad leg. Wilson moves slowly like he is trying not to jostle himself unnecessarily. Eugene holds the car door and steps onto the running board since the drop is an uncomfortable height for his stout frame. He thinks briefly that this must be what it feels like to get off the nursing home bus when they shuttle them out for activity day.

“Dad, are you alright with meatloaf and roasted potatoes tonight? I can make a Greek salad to go with it.” Veronica asks once he has navigated around to her side of the car.

“Sure, honey.”

“Will you gentlemen be joining us?”

Wilson and Greg perk up from where they are each standing.

“I never turn down free food.” Greg says simply.

“Oh, we can’t impose.” Wilson chides. He had expected that from the younger man. Always afraid to intrude, it seems.

“It’s not an imposition. Please, I’d love to have someone beside my dad to talk with for once. He’s lousy when it comes to stories.”

“Hey,” he starts, affronted. “I have great stories.”

“Yes, and I’ve heard each and every one of them.” She agrees knowingly.

“I’ll be there.” Greg says as he limps toward the front entrance. “Wilson will follow. He hates to be alone. He’s afraid of bears.”

Wilson scoffs as he grabs a shopping cart from the pile by the corral near the car. “I am not.”

“Are too!”

The shopping trip is mostly successful for all parties involved. He spots the couple a few times as they all make their way through the aisles. They bicker not-so-quietly, as usual. At the checkout, he sees a mix of healthful food, probably all Wilson’s doing, and assorted snacks that children prefer, definitely all Greg’s.

Once they are back in the parking area, he watches with delight as Wilson sneaks a packet of Oreos from one of their many bags into his own. Veronica is busy pushing their cart to the corral and none the wiser about the secretive exchange.

Greg messes with the radio on their drive back into the woods. He finds a terrible song and sings along loudly. Veronica rolls his window down with an eye roll.

“This is one of the reasons I never wanted kids.”

She catches his eyes in the rear-view and they smile.

They drop the couple off at their cabin without much more fanfare. Greg whines that he is unable to carry such bulky items, so Veronica is roped into transporting the heavy bags inside. He hears her lecture Greg for their unhealthy purchases as he supervises her work from the porch.

Eugene moves back to the passenger seat, with a hand from Wilson. The younger man holds his arm carefully as he levers up into the plush leather. Wilson shuts the door between them and rests his forearms across the open window.

“Thank you again for the invite to dinner. Are you sure we won’t be a burden?”

“Not at all. It should be ready at seven. I wouldn’t advise arriving any earlier unless you want Veronica to put you to work.”

“Seven it is, then. Greg is quite a handful in the kitchen. Wouldn’t want to traumatize Veronica any more than necessary.”

“I’m sure he’s a great helper.”

Wilson sighs and looks toward the man on the porch. “He’s a wonderful chef, actually. I know it doesn’t seem likely, but he’s full of surprises. Always has been.”

Eugene believes it. Greg has certainly surprised him more than once in the short time he’s known the man. “Great, then you can host the next dinner party.”

Wilson laughs. “Sure, thing. I’ll make it happen.”

He believes that, too. It seems to him that Greg would do anything if Wilson asked. It’s a perk of loving someone that lives on borrowed time. He remembers the feeling.

“Where’s your house?”

“Oh, just down the road from my shop. Ask Veronica for the address.” He nods toward his daughter as she walks back toward the car. He is glad for her arrival. He isn’t sure he can give accurate directions to his own house anymore.

After the information is exchanged, Veronica gets back into the Land Rover and swings out of the gravel drive. He sees Wilson wave goodbye from the porch. Greg, over his shoulder, is making a face.

* * *

Sounds of motorcycles interrupt the peaceful sizzle of potatoes in the oven.

“Your guests have arrived,” Veronica says, poking him with a set of salad tongs. “Go help them get inside.”

He leaves his crossword puzzle behind and slowly walks to the front door. The men dismount their bikes.

“Hidey-ho, neighbors!” He calls.

Wilson flips his hair out of his face and smiles. He sees why Greg had mentioned the Brad Pitt looks that first day he had spotted them in the water. Even sick, the younger man radiates that boyish charm. Greg begins to hobble up the front steps. By the third one, Wilson is there, a supportive hand on his partner’s elbow. Greg murmurs that he’s fine and shakes off the touch. He makes it up without incident and edges inside. He doesn’t offer a greeting on his way past.

“Eugene, do you have a heating pad by any chance?” Wilson quietly asks. His concerned gaze follows the other man as he enters the living room and crashes onto the couch. “It turned out to be a bad pain day.”

He nods and motions for Wilson to follow him down the hall to the sunroom at the back of the house where he sits most mornings. He grabs the hand sewn bean bag draped over the armrest. “Joyce made these for all the girls when they got their periods. And then the boys got jealous saying they had aches and pains, too. Turned into a veritable factory at one point. We’ve probably got fifteen of them throughout the house now.”

He leads Wilson into the kitchen and pops the bean bag into the microwave for a minute.

“That time of the month, huh?” Veronica asks, a wary eye as it circles inside the appliance.

Wilson laughs. “Something like that.”

He passes the heating pad into Wilson’s waiting hands once it is suitably warm. “Can I get you boys anything to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having will be fine. Thanks, Eugene.” Wilson smiles at him and quickly backtracks through the house to join Greg in the living room.

“You were right, Dad.”

“About what?” He asks as he takes down four glasses from the cupboard.

“They are nice.”

He hums his agreement as he pours iced tea into the glasses for everyone. “Need any help?”

Veronica snorts. “No thanks. I think I can manage to cut some tomatoes on my own.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “All right, missy. Just don’t want you slaving away in here while the boys shoot the shit.”

“Dad! Language.”

“Please, I’ve earned the right to use the _s-word_ in front of my child after eighty years on this Earth.”

“I don’t want you to set a bad example for your new friends,” she replies jokingly.

“Call me if you need anything.”

She shoos him away. “Go play.”

He carries two of the glasses into the living room. The men are seated close together on his couch. The heating pad is draped across Greg’s thigh. He massages the muscle high on his leg with a grimace as Wilson looks on worriedly.

“Tea.”

He places the glasses on the coffee table in front of each of them. He sits in the worn armchair by the front window across from them. This used to be Joyce’s favorite seat in the house. She always said she could see or hear every child from this spot. He didn’t think that was entirely true, but he is happy to still give her the benefit of the doubt on that one.

“How many kids did you and Joyce have?” Wilson asks. His gaze sweeps over the table in the corner, where a thatch of assorted picture frames have cropped up over the years.

All his kids are represented there. Some grand-kids, too. “Seven. And each of them a winner.”

“Wow. And you raised them in this house?”

“Yes, indeed. Lots of roommates back in those days. Not so much anymore.” He offers simply.

“Did they all stay nearby?” Wilson asks.

He thinks for a minute. He isn’t sure. He flips through the list of kids in his head, but gets stuck halfway through. “I don’t think so.”

Wilson is looking at him with sympathy. Greg, stares at him with a fierce look that searches every inch of him.

“You two have any?” He asks, happy to deflect away the all too familiar scrutiny of his mind’s ability to recall simple facts about his life.

“Oh, no. We’re not—we never—no.” Wilson answers uneasily.

 _Rickie._ He thinks. He was the one that didn’t stay nearby. Of course. He gets up from the chair and picks up one of the frames on the table. It’s from Rickie’s high school graduation. He is sandwiched between his parents with a blazing smile. Eugene has wondered for years if at the moment this was taken, his son had already planned his escape from Esopus Creek. A month after this, he was gone from their lives.

“I think my Rickie would have been a great dad. Never got the chance, unfortunately.”

“No?” Greg asks, inquisitive for more.

His hands grip tightly to the frame for another moment and then he passes it over to Greg. “No. He died from AIDS in ‘87.”

He hears Wilson release a breath, his eyes roving across the picture now held in Greg’s hands. “I’m sorry, Eugene.”

He nods. He never says ‘it’s okay’ or ‘thank you’ when someone offers him condolences. He knows those are the expected replies, but he can never work up to the actual words. Greg hands back the frame and his eyes slip closed. He resumes the massage of his leg muscle. He wonders if Greg’s intense study of him is over now. Did he finally fit all the pieces together? A dead wife—the reason why he picked up on Wilson’s condition? A lost son—the reason why he has been so kind to them from the very beginning?

Eugene places the frame back where it resides amongst the many relics from his family. The silence in the room is not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. It’s obvious that all of them are wrestling with demons of one kind or another.

Wilson clears his throat. “One time Greg convinced me I had a son. Hired a child actor and everything.”

“That sounds like quite a ruse.”

He can see Greg smirking. His eyes are still closed and the pain etched on his face masks it, but it’s there.

“It was one of his best, I think.”

“And?”

“And what?” Wilson asks.

“Were you a good dad to your fake son?”

Wilson chuckles. “Not enough data to know for sure. I bought him a toy and some meals. That was basically it.”

Greg cracks an eye open and inspects Wilson. After a second, the eyelid slips closed again. “He was a great dad.” He murmurs.

Wilson looks over in surprise.

“Well, in my experience, all boys want are toys and food. I’d say you had about as much success as I did and I had four goes at it.” He says with a shrug. “The only room for improvement would have been if you had gotten him a dog.”

“Ah. Sounds like a man that speaks from experience,” Wilson replies.

“If you look out back you’ll see our little graveyard for all those _experiences_.” He laughs. “Or you could just ask Veronica. I’m sure she has some stories.”

“I’ll bet. How did she ever survive life with four brothers?” he asks.

“No idea.”

Wilson regales him with a story about his own brothers growing up. Eugene listens attentively, but his eyes stray to Greg repeatedly throughout the conversation. The man barely moves, except for the hands on his thigh. They never stop their ministrations. After his frank conversation with Wilson about loss at the cabin the other day, he wonders if Greg will be strong enough to withstand losing his partner. The man is clearly accustomed to living with pain, but everyone has a breaking point. He wishes he could help them—delay the inevitable somehow—but knows it’s futile. What will be, will be. November will come soon enough and Johnny will make good on his promise to whisk him away from Esopus Creek. He’ll say it’s for his own good and promise to bring him back next year so he can return to the river, but he knows his son pretty well by now. He was never great at keeping his promises. And even if by some miracle Johnny does bring him back to Esopus Creek next year, he knows that the mismatched pair that sit across from him now won’t be downriver, bickering like they always seem to do.

He isn’t sure why the thought upsets him so much in this moment. Maybe he’s getting more delicate in his advanced age or he’s just latching on to the only people that aren’t forcing him to give up his last tethers to a quickly vanishing life. But, for whatever reason, the fact remains that next year promises no repeats of this evening. He resolves to enjoy the time he has left, both in this space and with his new friends.

“Is there lavender in this?” Greg asks, suddenly, in the middle of Wilson’s story about his brother’s third attempt at attaining his campfire-making scouting badge. His eyes are open and he looks at the bean bag on his leg as if it has sprouted legs.

“No idea,” Eugene answers.

Greg picks up the heating pad and sniffs it vigorously.

“House, you look insane. Stop that.”

“Smell this.” Greg says. He shoves the bean bag under Wilson’s nose. Wilson smacks at his hands in an effort to get him to stop. It’s ineffective. Wilson gives in and sniffs hesitantly.

“Yeah, lavender I guess. Why is that important?”

Greg shakes the bean bag toward Eugene. “Where’d you get this?”

“Had it forever. I was telling Wilson earlier that Joyce made handfuls of them for all the kids growing up.”

“How frequently do you use it?”

He shrugs. “Every morning, just about. I had a hip replacement around five years ago. It always aches in the morning.”

“Veronica!” Greg shouts.

He is confused at the sudden change in the man sitting across from him and it looks like Wilson feels much the same. He sees Veronica hurry down the hallway. Maybe Joyce was right after all. You can see all the kids from this vantage point.

“Everything okay?” she asks, worriedly. She wipes her hands on a towel tucked into her jeans.

“Did your father’s memory loss start in the last five years?”

“Uh—” she looks to him confused, “—maybe three years ago? Why?”

Greg’s eyes narrow and he lifts the bean bag up to study it again. “Did you ever help your mother make any of these?”

“Yeah, I guess. She taught us all how to sew eventually. Why?”

“What did she use inside?”

“Beans.” Veronica lifts her shoulders like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“What else?”

“House, come on.” Wilson says quietly. “You can’t fix dementia.”

“It’s not dementia,” he mutters. Eugene feels his heart race at the quiet words passed between the two men. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. “What else did she put in them?”

She shrugs. “I don’t really remember. She’d add some tea bags to the mix depending on who they were for. She used to say the smell helped with the pain, too.”

Greg’s focus slides back to Eugene. His gaze is intense. It frightens him for a moment. “Is this one she made early on in her career as a homemaker extraordinaire?”

Greg throws the bean bag onto the coffee table between them.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s the one she made for herself after we got married and moved here. She made the ones for the kids later. That’s why I use this one. It was hers.”

“Did she have allergies?”

Eugene nods.

“House. Stop. We don’t do this anymore.” Wilson pleads.

“Do what? Help people who have helped us? That’s not what the old Wilson would say.”

“The old Wilson isn’t here.”

Greg stands and crosses the room. “I know. And neither is House.”

He looks out the window by the front door. He leans his head against the glass and breathes out sharply before he speaks again.

“First generation antihistamines were used until the eighties and, for a short period of time before the American Board of Allergy and Immunology was established, they were marketed in over the counter teas as well as in pill form. Carbinoxamine maleate was one of the most popular drugs used in those anti-allergy teas and, since it was odorless, they added high proportions of lavender to the blend to prevent people from overdosing. I bet your wife added a whole box of the stuff to her little bean bag all those years ago, hoping that it would help her with the allergies she developed when you moved here. The fact that it still smells so strongly after decades only bolsters my theory.”

“What theory? What does this have to do with my dad’s dementia?” Veronica asks, hesitantly.

“It’s not dementia!” Greg states loudly. He turns back to face them and gestures toward Eugene. “Inhaling tiny particles of carbinoxamine maleate every day for the past five years has caused him to develop one of the major side effects of the drug—memory loss. Clinically, it’s completely different than dementia.”

“What?” Veronica stares at him, stunned.

“Your dad’s fine. For an eighty year old, I mean. He’s definitely got memory problems but he should be fine for a few more years before you and the rest of your siblings need to pack him off to the nursing home.”

“They aren’t sending me to a nursing home.”

“Well, not yet. But I’ll let you in on a secret, old man.” He lifts a hand and his voice shifts into a stage whisper. “ _That’s phase two of the plan_.”

“Get out.” Veronica is fuming. “All my dad talks about is how nice you two are and here you are saying we’re going to ship him off to some place so we can forget about him. How dare you!”

“I noticed a pen from ‘Terraces At Brookmeade’ in her cup holder when I was riding shotgun earlier. Looked it up when we got home. Five stars on Google Maps. That’s a pretty great rating for an assisted living facility this far upstate.”

Wilson gets up and quickly pulls Greg toward the front door. “I’m so sorry. He’s in a lot of pain right now. He’s not usually like this.”

“Yes I am!” Greg laughs.

Eugene is still shocked at all the information that has just been spread out before him, but the pieces all begin to slot into place. He sees the entire picture for the first time. He looks at the bean bag on the coffee table and then up at the men as they pull one another out onto the porch. Wilson shouts as they both nearly stumble down the stairs.

“Stay away from my dad!” Veronica yells from the top step.

“House! What the hell is your problem!”

Any answer is cut off by the sound of a motorcycle engine turning over. Another follows shortly after and he hears them trail off into the distance.

“Dad, are you alright?” Veronica asks as she rushes to his side in the armchair. “I don’t know what he was talking about. We would never do that to you. You know that right?”

“Is the meatloaf done?”

“What?”

Eugene heaves himself out of the chair and stops by the coffee table. He stoops to pick up the heating pad and walks toward the kitchen. He can hear Veronica follow after him. He drops the bean bag into the trash without a second thought and turns toward the oven. There’s three minutes left on the timer. “Perfect timing. I’m starved. Can I pack you up a plate to go?”

“To go?”

“Yeah. I’m not going to turn you out of the house without any food. Especially since you’re the one that made it.”

“You know I wouldn’t send you to a nursing home right?”

He waves her question away. “Oh, no. I know you wouldn’t. I’m sure the boys are going to be the ones to do it. Good cop, bad cop and all that. You, Deb, and Christy get to be the good girls on the sidelines saying it wasn’t your idea.”

“Dad—”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, honey. We don’t have to play this game. I know how much this land will sell for once I leave the place. I thought it was just Johnny playing the long game, so I’m thankful Greg clued me in that you’re a part of it, too.” The oven beeps and he grabs the potholders from the counter so he can remove the meatloaf. “Why don’t you call your brother and let him know that the deal is off.”

“Dad, please.”

“I’m not leaving Esopus Creek.”

* * *

He doesn’t see Greg or Wilson for nearly two weeks. He hears a motorcycle once or twice while he’s puttering around at the shop, but they never stop in the small parking area. Neither of them show up in their usual spots at the river, either. On top of that, Veronica doesn’t come by on Sunday to do his regular grocery run. He survives on soup and crackers for a few more days before he works up the guts to do something about it.

“Monty?”

“Huh?” His most valued customer looks up from the display of reels along the wall of the shop.

“Who’s the boy that was taking care of the property that just got sold?”

“Neely Dwight’s place? Tommy Finnegan.”

“He’s a handyman isn’t he?”

“Sure is. I have him clean my gutters. If I’m going to die on a ladder, I’d rather it be while I’m fishing.”

He rolls his eyes. He’s never been a fan of anglers that use ladders to spot their targets. He always thought patience in the water was better than poaching them from up high. “He’s got a car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have his number?”

“Yeah, I must. Let me give it a look see.” The man unclips his phone from his belt and clicks at the small buttons. “Ah, here it is. Want me to write it down for you?”

“Yes please,” he says as he hands over a note pad. Monty scribbles down the number and passes it back.

“Need some work done on the old place?”

“No, just some help on the weekends.”

After Monty leaves, his wallet significantly lighter and fishing kit a bit heavier, Eugene calls the number for Tommy Finnegan. A bright and lively voice answers on the third ring. He quickly explains why he is calling and Tommy happily agrees to pick him up after work so he can take him to the store.

He closes up shop at exactly five and is greeted by a rusted out old pickup in the lot. Tommy, he assumes, waves from behind the windshield. He waves back and climbs in. They shoot the shit easily on the drive to the store. Once inside, Tommy gamely pushes the cart as he meanders through the aisles. He navigates them around a corner toward the cereal and comes face to face with Greg.

“Old man.” Greg nods. “How’s the memory loss?”

“What memory loss?” He replies, deadpan.

Greg’s lips quirk up in a smile. “That good, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty good actually.”

“Veronica, my how you’ve changed!” He says, eyes now focused on Tommy.

The kid waves hello. “I’m Tommy!”

“He’s my new bodyguard. Had to up the security detail after you revealed all my kids hate me.”

Greg shakes his head. “Not all of them.”

There’s a beat of silence and then he points in the direction of the oatmeal further down the aisle. “You’re a better door than a window.”

“My dad always said that.”

“They teach all the dads that on day one of dad school,” he jokes. He pokes Greg out of the way and fetches his preferred brand.

“Ah, that explains it. My dad only made it through day one before calling it quits.”

He comes back to drop the oatmeal into the cart and examines the man in front of him. “Where’s your better half?”

“Wasn’t up to the ride today.” Greg purses his lips and quickly looks toward his cane as he thumps it into the linoleum.

“He promised me you were going to cook for our next dinner party. Ask him if the offer still stands even though you didn’t actually get any meatloaf.”

Greg nods. “I’ll ask him.”

“You know where to find me.” He points Tommy in the direction of the snack aisle. “Gotta go get Oreos.”

* * *

He is walking the short distance between the shop and his house one evening when he hears the roar of a motorcycle behind him on the road. It slows to a stop beside him. Greg turns off the ignition and they are left surrounded by the sounds of nature from the nearby woods.

“Hey, old man. Closed early for the day?”

He looks down at his watch. “No. It’s past five.”

“Just checking your short term memory.” Greg responds lazily. “Wilson said the no-meatloaf non-dinner counts. He’s forcing me to cook for you. He said I owed it to you as an apology for causing family turmoil. So, clear your schedule!”

Eugene laughs. “Okay.”

“Really? No hot dates to cancel? Teary trips to the cemetery to rearrange?”

“Nope. The only dates in my calendar are with the trout.”

“Ew.”

“And the dead don’t care when I visit.”

Greg hums. “Fair enough.”

“I assume you’ll come and take me hostage at some unknown point when I least expect it?”

“How about now?”

He wonders if Greg has gone off the deep end. “I don’t have a car,” he explains patiently.

“Neither do I,” Greg replies with a shrug.

“Can’t walk to your house.”

“Me neither.”

Eugene looks at the bike underneath Greg. “You can’t be serious.”

“No, usually not. But this time I am. It’s perfectly safe.”

“I don’t think that’s a hundred percent true. Especially not with you behind the wheel.”

Greg smiles at him in a way that is only vaguely intimidating. “Trust me, I used to be a doctor.”

He huffs a laugh. “I figured that out from the whole monologue in my living room.”

“Oh, good. You remember that. Now Wilson is _definitely_ going to make me apologize. I was hoping you were far enough gone that we could skip over it.” He holds an extra helmet from the back of the bike out.

“I’m eighty.”

“Never too old to be reckless.”

Eugene thinks it over for a moment and then bows in defeat. Why not? Life’s too short. And he wants to spend some time with his friends. He grabs the helmet and slowly sits on the back of the bike. His hip gives a twinge at the position, but he feels excitement thrum through him.

Greg kicks the engine to life and then shouts over the noise. “Just think, if I splat you all over the road then the kids won’t have to work so hard to get your house after all!”

His laugh is lost in the wind as they coast down the shady road toward Greg and Wilson’s cabin. He holds tight to Greg and watches the trees as they quickly speed past. He knows Greg is driving more slowly than usual for his benefit, but it still a marvelous feeling. He feels the sun shine on him from between the bits of canopy overhead and in that moment he is freer than he has been in years.

Greg pulls into the gravel driveway a few minutes later and he lets Eugene wrestle his uncooperative body off the bike before he leans it onto the kickstand and hops off, too. Eugene passes the helmet back to him and smiles happily at the gruff man.

“Thanks for being a bad influence.”

“Shh. Don’t tell mom I took you for a joyride. She’ll be mad.” He plucks two plastic grocery bags from the saddle bag by the back wheel.

Eugene laughs and agrees as they walk toward the door.

Once inside, they hear Wilson from somewhere near the back of the cabin. “House? Where have you been?”

“Went to commune with nature.”

He hears Wilson scoff loudly in disbelief as they walk in the direction of his voice. “Yeah? And how did that go?”

“Burned down half an acre of natural preserve. But I did find something fun on the way home.”

“Is it alive?”

“Barely.”

They enter the den beside the kitchen. Wilson is spread out on a large sofa in front of a roaring fireplace. He doesn’t turn around as they enter. His focus is on a well-worn book in his lap.

“Mom can I keep him?” Greg pleads with a simpering little pout.

Wilson looks back over his shoulder and yelps. “Eugene!” He hurries to stand.

“That’s my name, all right. Don’t get up. I’ll come join you.” He totters into the room and sits down in the section of couch where Wilson’s feet were resting only a moment ago.

“House. I am _not_ dressed for company.” He gestures at the heavy terrycloth robe and plaid pajama pants he has on currently.

“You said invite him to dinner, so I did!” Greg says before limping heavily out of the room.

“I meant sometime in the future.” Wilson murmurs to himself, his fingers pressing into his eyes like a man suffering from a severe headache. Eugene figures that Greg has caused lots of those over the years. He takes the opportunity to look closely at Wilson. It’s only been two weeks since he’s seen him last, and the robe is doing a lot to obscure his already thin frame. His wrist, though, is visible from where the sleeve has slipped down to his elbow. It looks like it could snap if a gust of wind passed by. He can see the bluish purple of his veins under his skin from where he sits, even in the warm glow of the fire. The grey hair around his temples has spread incrementally further.

He hears a cabinet bang in the kitchen and the sound of pots being haphazardly thrown onto a stove. It shakes him from his thoughts of Wilson’s health. “Thanks for having me over.”

Wilson looks up and leans back into the cushions. His kind eyes focus on Eugene and the man sighs quietly. “I’m so sorry about the other day.”

“No need to apologize. I appreciate it, actually.”

Wilson smiles at him. “I find that hard to believe.”

He looks into the hearth. “It’s true. I know it all sounded a bit sinister when Greg said it—possibly because of the _way_ he said it—but he wasn’t wrong. And it’s not like the kids were purposely poisoning me or anything. They were just taking advantage of a bad situation and now the conditions surrounding that situation have changed thanks to that ass of yours in the kitchen.”

Wilson chuckles. “He has a certain flair for the dramatic.”

“I’ll say.”

“Have you noticed any improvement in your memory?”

He shakes his head. “It’s hard to say. I’m getting up there, you know. The memories are going to go no matter what. I’d be happy if the ones I had left would just stay put.”

Wilson hums pensively.

“But I did remember the name of the woman that used to live here when I walked in. Neely Dwight. She used to run the only landscaping business in town. Haven’t been able to do that for a while.”

“That’s good.”

He looks over at Wilson. The man is staring into the fire, his thoughts are clearly far away from the previous homeowner. “How have you been?”

Wilson sighs. “I started coughing this week.”

“And that’s bad news,” he speculates. He still isn’t sure what exactly Wilson has, but he knows enough to fill in most of the blanks.

“Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I ask—” he trails off, unsure.

Wilson swivels his gaze away from the fire. “Go ahead. I’m an open book.”

“How did you and Greg get to Esopus Creek of all places?”

Wilson laughs. “That’s your question?”

“Yeah, why? Expecting something else?”

Wilson lifts a shoulder up. “I guess I was. There’s plenty of unusual stuff about us that I figured would have topped your list. And it’s not a very interesting answer.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Okay, well. We were taking turns picking places to visit. Greg picked the Kaatskill Kaleidoscope and then it was my turn after that. Thought I might enjoy fishing and this was the best place nearby.”

Eugene whistles. “The Kaatskill Kaleidoscope. I haven’t heard of that place in ages. It’s still there?”

“You’ve heard of it?” Wilson asks, disbelieving.

“Sure! Who hasn’t? It’s the world’s largest kaleidoscope. I tried to convince Joyce to go see it once after we were empty nesters, but she thought it was a roadside scam.”

“I’m still not sure it wasn’t.”

He laughs. “So has fishing been all you dreamed of?”

Wilson thinks for a minute. “A little yes. A little no. I’m certainly better at it than I expected. But I knew we were going to have to stop travelling sooner rather than later. I was getting tired more quickly. Wasn’t up for driving all day or night like we had been doing. I would rather us stop somewhere quiet like this. I’m sure if we had kept going I would have ended up spending my dying days stretched out on Miami Beach or someplace equally terrible.”

“Dying on the beach doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I burn.”

Eugene nods. “Ah. Then, yes. I think you made the right choice.”

The fire crackles and the sound of vegetables being chopped rings out from the kitchen as they sit together. Eugene is grateful that they stopped here. He’s glad to know Wilson and Greg.

“I’ve probably only got a month left now,” Wilson adds quietly.

“Mm. The coughing.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s still lots of time.”

“It’s not enough.”

“No,” he says. “It’s never enough.”

They sit in companionable silence together and watch the fire. Eventually, Greg rouses them from their retrospective thoughts by poking his head around the door jamb.

“Food time.”

He leaves just as quickly as he appeared. Wilson chuckles and helps Eugene up from the couch so they can file into the kitchen. Greg is back in front of the stove, ladling some type of stew into bowls for them. Eugene offers to help but is swiftly rebuffed and directed to the breakfast nook on the other side of the room.

“A truly great chef cares about the plating.” Greg explains.

Wilson is setting cloth napkins and spoons at places around the table. “Don’t listen to him. He just wants to make sure he gets all the biggest bits of sweet potato.”

“They’re good for my eyes.”

“That’s carrots.”

“That’s a myth.”

Eugene smiles at their easy banter and sits in one of the chairs to wait for his meal. The pair move about the kitchen like they’ve done it for years. Each is slow in his own way. Greg isn’t using his cane, since he needs both hands to portion out the food. He hobbles from the stove to the table, bringing bowls over one at a time. Wilson pours them ice water and brings it to the table, careful not to bump into the long limbed man as he is ferrying food across the room. Greg pulls a tray of crispy bread from the oven and carefully picks the slices up to throw them into a waiting towel lined basket.

“Taa-daa.” He says as he drops the basket into the middle of the table.

Wilson has gently folded himself into the chair beside Eugene and looks up at Greg with a raised eyebrow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Ah, of course.” Greg says, solemnly. He turns toward Eugene. “About last week—I forgive you for not letting us eat that meatloaf. It was horribly rude of you, but I’m the bigger person, so I’ll let it slide.”

“House!”

Eugene can only laugh. He doesn’t need an apology and he is happy to play along with Greg’s antics. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’ll try to do better in the future.”

“Okay, old man. But I’ve got my eye on you.” Greg wiggles a finger in his direction.

“Noted.”

Wilson sighs in exasperation and takes a piece of bread from the basket, obviously giving up on trying to force the man to apologize. Eugene digs in to the meal and is impressed with what he discovers. Wilson might have undersold his partner’s skill in the kitchen.

“I thought you said you used to be a doctor.” He says between bites. “Seems like you missed your calling in life.”

“Says the man I saved from a life sentence in the super-senior dorm just a week ago,” Greg jokes.

He turns to Wilson. “Must be nice to have a personal chef and doctor on call at all times. Ever consider renting him by the hour?”

Wilson looks at Greg fondly. “Believe me, the perks come with many hidden costs.”

“That’s slander.” Greg states firmly. “I’m practically an angel.”

“Sure. Though, wasn’t Lucifer an angel too?” Wilson asks with a suspicious smirk.

“No, no. He was a Cylon.”

The connection comes to him in an instant and he snaps his fingers. “Jonathan Harris!”

The pair turn to him in surprise.

“He was the uncredited voice actor for Lucifer in _Battlestar Galactica_.” He reasons, proud that he picked up on the reference and that he remembers such a fact. “I loved him in _Lost in Space_. He was always such a great villain.”

“Wow.” Greg puts his spoon down. “How do I say this kindly so Wilson won’t make me apologize to you, our distinguished elder?”

Eugene quirks his eyebrow.

“You’re a huge nerd.” Greg declares.

He shrugs. “I’ve been to a convention or two in my time. The _Star Trek_ ones were always my favorites.”

Greg’s mouth twitches up in a sly smile. “Oh wow. You’re only digging the hole deeper, Eugene.”

Wilson is smiling at him now, too.

He crosses his arms over his chest. He’s allowed to be a bit smug about this, he thinks. “As you said, I’m a respected elder—”

“Did I say respected? I don’t think I did.”

“—And I’d be happy to share all my best stories from my con days back in the nineties.”

Greg rolls his eyes but Wilson happily jumps in with a question. “Did you ever meet DeForest Kelley?”

“I sure did.”

The conversation unspools quickly as he regales Wilson with the story of how he met the actor once in passing after a weekend convention in Indiana. He notes that Greg is following along attentively as he speaks.

“He gave a lecture at McGill when I was in undergrad,” Wilson adds wistfully. “I didn’t usually go to those things, but a friend dragged me along. He seemed like such a genuine man. I always regretted not getting an autograph from him after the event.”

“You absolute dweeb.” Greg moans. “I can’t believe I picked you as my best friend for all these years.”

“Oh, like the pool of applicants included someone other than me?” Wilson asks.

Eugene eats quietly and observes the bickering. It feels like watching his children squabble at the dinner table like they used to all those decades ago. The men know exactly which buttons to push to get their desired results. He sees exasperation and mischief flit across each man’s face as they do their best to one up each other. Wilson is a master at maintaining a straight face while Greg needles him, but he can still catch a smothered smile slip through occasionally.

After the long exchange and exaggerated grousing, Greg drops his spoon into the empty bowl in front of him and declares that he’ll have to put out an advertisement for a new best friend in the paper.

“I would have just promoted the old man to fill your spot, but nerdy hidden interests are instantly disqualifying.” He looks at Eugene with piercing blue eyes. “You lied on your resume.”

“Everyone lies on their resume.” Eugene adds with a shrug, reaching over to grab another piece of bread from the communal basket.

“Please—" Wilson exhales loudly, “—you are the biggest geek at this table and you know it.” He scoots his chair back and carries his half-filled bowl to the sink.

“That’s because you’re not at the table any more. You’re the one that used to have movie posters hanging in your office.”

“Classic movies!” Wilson clarifies.

Eugene stands and nudges Wilson away from the sink. “Allow me. My penance for opening up this can of worms.”

Wilson sidles further down the counter and picks up a towel. He dries items as Eugene places them in the draining board. “I seem to remember you dressing up for a renaissance faire not too long ago.” He points a utensil in Greg’s direction. “You just happened to have that outfit lying around in the back of your closet, huh?”

The other man has stretched his leg out across the empty chair beside him and his hands are laced behind his head. He’s the picture of calm repose. “It’s not the only thing I dragged out of the closet in recent memory.”

Wilson shakes his head in exasperation. His cheeks are slightly pink, Eugene notices. It’s a nice change from the unhealthy tinge they usually carry these days. He doesn’t think Wilson has any reason to be ashamed, but he steers them away from that topic anyway—if only just to spare Wilson further embarrassment.

“It’s almost my bedtime. When are you going to drive me home, Greg?”

Wilson stills beside him. “What!” He glances between the two of them, stunned.

Eugene peeks over his shoulder. Greg is staring at him like he’s planning his demise. He looks back at the dishes he’s cleaning and whistles happily while he continues his work.

“Did you drive him here on your _motorcycle_?” Wilson asks in disbelief.

Greg grunts halfheartedly.

“He’s an eighty year old man!” He turns to stare daggers at Eugene. “Do you even know how to ride a motorcycle?”

“I do now,” he replies casually.

He can hear Greg chuckle from across the room.

“Oh my god. The two of you are insane. Absolutely beyond all hope.” Wilson throws up his hands and leaves the room.

Eugene continues his task quietly. Greg heaves himself up from his seat and drops his bowl into the sink with a soapy splash. “Well played, old man.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he replies pleasantly.

“Mm-hmm.” Greg nods. He picks up the towel Wilson dropped on the counter and begins to dry the items left behind. They work in peace for a few minutes. Eugene is nearly finished with the chore before Greg speaks again. “You’re protective of him.”

“So are you.”

“I have good reason,” Greg says fiercely.

“Yes, you do.” He turns off the sink and watches the man beside him. “It never hurts to have more people in your corner, though. Especially when times get tough.”

Greg dries the cutting board with pursed lips. He’s staring at it intently, but his focus is far away. “We don’t need pity.”

“No one does. Sympathy is for suckers.”

Greg’s eyes slide to meet his. “Then what’s all this about?”

He thinks for a moment. He knows this is important for Greg to figure out and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, but all he can do is be honest. “It’s tough for forgetful old pensioners to make new friends.” He shrugs. “I guess I just like being around you two. Is that so hard to believe?”

Greg snorts. “Yeah.”

“Not used to that feeling, huh?”

Wilson suddenly rushes back into the room in a frenzy. “Eugene, I absolutely forbid you riding on that motorcycle again. It’s incredibly dangerous under even the best conditions and now that it’s dark the chance that you’d make it home in one piece are astronomical. I am not going to be the one calling your kids to tell them you died in a fiery accident with a senseless idiot. You’re going to stay in the guest room tonight. We’ll figure out a different way to get you home tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

Eugene smiles. “Yes, mom.”

Greg laughs from beside him. It’s a true laugh, something he didn’t think he’d ever hear from the gruff man. He finds himself laughing too. Wilson grumbles from across the room and mutters as he walks away.

Later, Wilson calms down enough to gather some clean sheets and an extra towel before he shows Eugene to the guest room. He is jealous that the cabin is all on one level. He wishes his own home was configured in a similar way. He’s sure his hip would have appreciated fewer stairs to climb over all these years. He knows it is a blessing for Greg, due to his mobility issue, but he also recognizes it’ll be helpful for Wilson once his illness really takes hold. He remembers struggling to get Joyce up and down the stairs in their home many times when she was sick. He doesn’t miss those moments at all and he’s glad these two won’t have that obstacle added to their long list of challenges soon to come.

He bids the boys goodnight and bunks down for the evening. It’s drafty in the unused room, but the extra comforter on the end of the bed is enough to keep him warm. He can hear the other men as they wind down for the night. Wilson spends many minutes in the bathroom down the hall and he overhears Greg urging him to hurry up. The hallway grows quiet after a while but he can still hear Greg’s deep voice through the walls. Wilson is quieter, probably aware enough of their guest to keep his voice low, but Eugene can still make out the tail end of their conversation.

“I can’t believe you put him on a motorcycle.”

“He loved it.”

“You’re a maniac.”

“You love it.”

“That you’re completely insane?”

“Yeah, that’s the rumor around town. Jimmy loves a maniac. Must be brain damage.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Hey, so am I! Last one asleep is a rotten egg.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“So are you.”

* * *

Eugene wakes the next morning to the sound of more squabbling from the direction of the bathroom down the hall. He eases himself up and out of the bed, his hip sore from the unfamiliar mattress. He can tell from his view out the wide window on the opposite side of the room that he has slept later than usual. He’s surprised Greg allowed him this much peace and quiet. He half expected the man to be an insomniac that would roam the halls, keeping them all awake to share in his misery.

He staggers from the room, his body not yet fully cooperative and finds Greg outside the bathroom, head leaned against the closed door. The man looks up as he approaches.

“Oh great! The wait grows even longer! I just know our distinguished guest is going to cut in line.”

Eugene passes by with a harrumph, instead focused on finding something containing caffeine in the kitchen. He locates a package of generic brand coffee in the freezer and begins to fiddle with the ancient coffee maker on the corner of the countertop. He pours in enough water for three portions, unsure if the others will want any. He sits at the table while he waits for the brewing process. Birds flit from branch to branch on the trees outside the window beside him. He is content to sit and watch.

More sounds from the hallway precede the appearance of Wilson as he bustles in a few minutes later. “Good morning, Eugene. How did you sleep?”

“Pretty good, all things considered. And yourself?”

Wilson sits down carefully in the chair across from him. “Eh. Can’t complain.”

“Sure you can. I think you’ve earned it.”

Wilson laughs quietly. “I guess you’re right. House likes to hog the sheets, which is a pain in the ass, but I’m tired enough these days that I barely notice now.”

He nods. “Where’s that nickname come from?” He’s wondered about the unusual name for weeks now, ever since he first heard Wilson use it. Greg isn’t built like someone one would expect to be called ‘House.’

“Ah. It’s not a nickname. It’s a long story, I guess.”

His eyes flick to the coffee maker. “Well, you’ve got at least five minutes before that hunk of junk is finished churning out whatever sludge I made. What else are we going to talk about?”

Wilson rubs at the back of his neck for a minute. “Okay, sure. Why not? But don’t go writing an exposé on us in the local newspaper once you hear this story, alright?”

“On my honor,” he replies, with his hand held aloft in the Boy Scout salute.

“Greg—House—was a doctor. So was I, up until a few months ago. We were both pretty well known, at least in certain circles. He had some problems in the last few years. Pretty serious ones. That made him even more well known, unfortunately. When I got my diagnosis—” he trails off.

Eugene sits patiently. He doesn’t need to hear this story, so he won’t pry further if Wilson isn’t willing to share. The other man plays with the fringe on the corner of the placemat in front of him. The visual is hard to parse, especially without a coffee in him yet, but Eugene thinks he can see flickers of a few emotions warring beneath the surface there. He’s pensive and worried, frustrated and sad. It’s a terrible mixture that makes Eugene hate that he even brought it up. Wilson takes in a gulp of air and then coughs into his elbow. He pats the other man’s back as he settles after a ragged breath. Another minute passes before Wilson leans back and folds his hands into his lap.

“When I got my diagnosis, he gave up everything. He threw away all the progress he had made. He can’t come back from that choice now. I suspect he wouldn’t want to anyway. He’s enjoying life as an outlaw more than he lets on. We’ve done our best to not get noticed in our travels, although he’s never been great at blending in. I mostly stopped using his surname in public, but I still slip up, especially when it’s just us. I’ve known him for twenty years. He’ll always be House to me.”

“That’s pretty romantic.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I told him to stop calling me Wilson, too, but he never even bothered trying.”

“He’s a lost cause. That much is obvious.”

Wilson laughs. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Yeah.”

The birds chirp from outside and the coffee maker gurgles angrily in the corner.

“Twenty years, huh?”

Wilson shakes his head. “It’s not as impressive as it sounds. I had a couple of wives during that period as well.”

He laughs, not expecting that piece of information. “Well, the course of true love never did run smooth, did it?”

“I suppose not.” Wilson rubs along the back of his neck. “How long were you and Joyce together?”

Eugene thinks back, wanting to make sure he gets the answer right. “We knew each other for almost our whole lives. Married for nearly fifty years,” he says with assurance.

“Wow.”

“I wish it had been longer,” he admits.

“I know what you mean,” Wilson murmurs. “House and I wasted so much time.”

He waves at Wilson to stop that thought before it can progress any further. “It wasn’t a waste if it got you here.”

Wilson looks away, back to the peaceful scene outside the window.

“And for what it’s worth, it’s obvious to me that Greg didn’t give up _everything_. He just reorganized his priorities to put you first. People don’t do that after twenty years unless that time together meant something. Who cares if it took a while to put all the pieces together? You’ve got each other now.”

He can see the other man grapple with the statement. He leans back in his chair and lets Wilson be alone with his thoughts. The coffee maker finally quiets and he raises himself up from the rickety chair.

“Coffee?”

The other man nods faintly.

Eugene prepares two cups and shuttles them back to the table. Wilson spoons sugar into his cup from the pot he sets down nearby like he is functioning on autopilot.

He sits down again and relaxes in the calm that surrounds them. “That wasn’t such a long story,” he muses, his arms crossed over his belly as he waits for his own drink to cool.

“I left out some details.” Wilson says.

“That’s okay. You can tell me more next week when we have dinner again. How’s that sound?”

Wilson smiles at him. “Sure—as long as there are no more secret rides on the motorcycle anymore.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I promise. I’ll make sure to have Tommy on stand-by to ferry me around from this point forward. Speaking of, I should give him a call. I don’t want to spend all morning underfoot here.”

“Making wisecracks about my impairment, I see!” Greg nearly shouts from the hall. “And to think I let you talk me into chauffeuring you around yesterday. Never again, old timer!” He swings into the kitchen dramatically and limps toward the coffeepot.

Eugene rolls his eyes and excuses himself to use the bathroom and then borrows their landline so he can arrange a ride. He’s already missed his favorite window of time for early-morning fishing. He’ll have to hurry home and change so he can open the shop on time.

He thanks both boys as they see him to the door once Tommy arrives. Wilson squeezes his hand lightly on his way out the door. He smiles at the younger man and promises to catch up with them later in the week.

“Weather looks good for fishing on Friday.” He adds, as he leaves the porch.

Greg groans. “Ugh! Stop! Wilson can’t take the peer pressure.”

Wilson bats lightly at Greg’s shoulder. “We’ll see you there.”

“You’re a terrible influence!” Greg shouts.

Eugene shuts the car door and waves serenely from the passenger seat.

* * *

Friday comes around and Eugene is pleased to find both Wilson and Greg already situated in their respective folding chairs further down the river. This is the first time that they’ve arrived before him at Esopus Creek. As he gets closer, he’s surprised to see Greg has set up his chair in the river this time instead of on the rocky shoreline where he usually chooses to stretch out. His jeans are rolled up away from the water that flows around his shins and bright sneakers are resting in his lap. Wilson is dressed to fish, but his rod is resting against the side of his chair. His focus is on Greg and the men are talking quietly.

Eugene takes up his usual spot in the river, not wanting to disturb their early morning calm. He begins to cast, letting the bright orange line flow under his fingers as he moves in time with his breaths. He catches a beautiful trout only a few minutes after he has begun. He marvels at the living being in his hands for a moment under the rush of the water and then he lets it go.

About an hour after his arrival, he hears a yell and a commotion from behind him. He snaps out of his reverie and looks over his shoulder, worried about his friends. His fears are instantly allayed when he sees what has happened. Greg’s chair is tipped over in the water and the man is soaking wet and struggling to stand.

“I was sleeping, you idiot!” Greg shouts.

“I want a photo!” Wilson replies between laughs. His concentration is split between the fish caught on his line and the drenched man battling the lazy current beside him.

“Well, you’re not getting one now obviously!” He gestures at himself with a watery splash.

“Everything okay down there, boys?” Eugene calls, trying his best not to laugh at Greg’s misfortune.

“No!” Greg whines. He is finally upright. He removes his phone from his pocket and looks at it with despair as it drips steadily into the water below. 

Eugene sees the problem. He reels in his own line and leaves his rod on the shore. He makes his way down to the pair as Wilson removes his pliers from his bib pocket. “Hold on. I’ve got you.” He waddles into the water and removes the waterproof Kodak he keeps tucked in his pocket for occasions such as these.

“A disposable camera?” Greg asks in disbelief as he draws closer. “Do they even make those anymore?”

“Yep. For the old geezers like me that know not to bring electronics into the river.” He moves toward Wilson and snaps a few action shots of the man as he begins to dip his hands into the water. “Let’s get a good one before you cut it loose.”

Wilson looks up at him. “Well at least someone is prepared!” he says. His boyish smile is out in full force. He’s so proud of himself and Eugene can’t help feeling it as well. 

“Hold it under the belly a few inches out of the water,” he instructs. He pulls the camera to his eye and lines up the shot. Wilson does as he’s told and smiles for posterity. Eugene clicks away madly, wanting to be sure he captures the moment. “Got it!”

Wilson plunges the fish back into the water and deftly removes the lure from the trout’s mouth. The fish swims off quickly, no worse for the wear. Wilson is grinning as he watches it go. Greg is still sulkily dripping a few feet away.

“Thanks, Eugene.”

“No bother at all. I’m glad I was here to help. And don’t worry,” he looks over at Greg, “most people only need to learn the waterproof camera lesson once.”

Greg brushes past him to the edge of the river and starts to peel off his wet shirt. “There’s probably naegleria amoeba swimming toward my brain now. Say your goodbyes while I’m still lucid.”

“Water’s not warm enough for naegleria, you big baby.”

Greg shivers. “Oh, I’m well aware.” He roots around in the bag of snacks and fishing gear Wilson always leaves nearby. “No towel? I thought you were all about planning for worst case scenarios.”

Wilson sits back in his chair and smiles up into the sunshine. “Not anymore.”

Eugene huffs a laugh and heads back toward the shore line. He picks up a wayward shoe from where it has been caught between two rocks in the river’s flow and hands it over to Greg as he passes. Greg grouses as he removes more of his clothing, first his belt and then his jeans. There is a terrible scar on his thigh that Eugene looks away from quickly. He’s sure Greg doesn’t want him studying that particular bit of him any further. He walks back along the rocks to return to his little bit of river upstream. By the time he is back in the water with rod in hand, he can see all of Greg’s clothes stretched out on the rocks to dry and the man himself seated in the grass further inland. He’s wearing a grey sweater, probably pulled from the bag by his feet, and his boxers. He has a packet of jerky in his hands and he tears at the pieces with a disgruntled look. Wilson is still smiling peacefully from where he sits in the water.

He falls back into his rhythm and enjoys the quiet sounds of Greg and Wilson’s easy banter. Some time later, he decides he should go open the shop. Monty will be by before long in preparation for his usual weekend fishing excursion and he’s always sure to spend a pretty penny. He packs up his belongings and yells a goodbye to the pair. Wilson’s rod is laying across his lap, no longer being put to use. The man rouses from a light doze to call back his goodbye. The sunshine glints through his hair as he waves. Greg has donned his jeans again now that they are mostly dry, but the worn sweater is still in place. He spins his cane between his fingers instead of waving.

* * *

Eugene realizes halfway through the next week that he doesn’t actually have Greg or Wilson’s phone number. Their short friendship has always involved catching up with one another by chance or arranging a time to meet in advance. He wants to host the boys for dinner again, but doesn’t know how to go about it. He hasn’t seen the pair at the river since Greg’s little swim and they haven’t stopped in his shop, so he does his best to stay patient. He arranges a trip with Tommy to CVS and the grocery store and he buys the ingredients for meatloaf.

He ends up making the meatloaf for himself after another week, afraid that the meat is going to go bad. He looks at the calendar by his fridge each morning and ticks the days off as the fishing season nears its end. He remembers Wilson saying how much time he had left that night in front of the fire and every new day fills him with another bit of dread that the time has come and he has already said his last goodbye to his friend.

His fears are confirmed one evening when his phone rings. He hurries to pick it up from the cradle and finds Greg’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Can you get over here?”

“Yes.”

The line goes dead. He hangs up and immediately dials Tommy’s number. The man answers and agrees to pick him up without any questions, despite the late hour. He waits impatiently for the kid to arrive, pacing the length of the house. When he sees the headlights dip into the driveway, he hurries outside. Once in the car, his knee starts to bounce. He wishes he could still be pacing. His heart feels like ice beneath his ribs as they get closer to the cabin.

They pull into the gravel drive and he hurries to get out. He tells Tommy to go. The boy is confused but does as he’s asked. He’s a good kid, Eugene thinks distantly.

There are a few lights on at the house, but the porch light isn’t one of them. He carefully makes it up the few steps to the door and tries the handle. It’s unlocked. He walks into the living room and sees Greg seated on the floral couch in front of the stone fireplace. There’s no fire in the grate, but the man still stares at it intently.

He stands at the threshold to the room and waits for Greg. None of them ever discussed this, but he knows what needs to happen.

“He’s in the den.” Greg says quietly.

“Okay.” He waits but Greg doesn’t move. “Give me your number. I’ll call when they’re gone.”

Greg nods imperceptibly and then rises slowly from the couch. Eugene makes an aborted movement to try and help him up, but Greg waves him off. He limps to the kitchen and Eugene follows quietly. He writes down a phone number on the notepad by the ancient landline hooked to the wall and then breathes heavily. After a moment, he starts toward the front door but Eugene stops him with a steady hand on his forearm.

“Be safe.”

Greg blinks and then shakes out of his grip.

He watches from a window at the front of the house as the man climbs onto his motorcycle, helmet quickly pulled on. The engine roars to life and he peels away from the cabin. Eugene breathes out steadily and then moves to the phone. He remembers these motions like they happened just yesterday. He dials 911 and calmly tells the dispatcher that his friend has died, that it was expected, and that there is no emergency. He stays on the line while the woman assures him that help will be there soon. He wishes the landline cord would stretch to the den, but he can’t make it further than the hallway. It’s a remote town, but the ambulance still arrives quickly. He thanks the dispatcher and shows the EMTs to the den.

He goes into the room for the first time since his arrival. The body is stretched out on the couch by the fireplace. There are embers in the grate and a line of pill bottles on the mantle. Beside them is the baby blue vase he gave Wilson all those weeks ago. It feels like he is watching the moment from a great distance. Like it isn’t real. His only comfort is that he knows that Wilson’s not there anymore. He calmly explains the situation and they feel for a pulse. He realizes distantly that Greg must have waited some time before calling him. He remembers from his experience with Joyce that they try to revive anyone who is still warm. The EMTs don’t take any further action this time. One inspects the medications on the mantle and confirms the cause of death is a terminal illness, as if it wasn’t already obvious from the state of the body laid out only a few feet away.

The sheriff arrives shortly thereafter to write up a report and ask him questions. The lies come easily. He confirms that Wilson lived alone and had no family. He says that his friend had left him in charge of all the arrangements since there was no one else in his life. She isn’t too interested in the whole affair, although she’s polite. He’s grateful she isn’t inspecting the situation too closely. Surely if she poked around a bit, she would find that the puzzle doesn’t quite add up. He gently asks her to call the people at the Esopus Bend Funeral Home to get things moving more quickly. He doesn’t want to prolong this more than necessary and he remembers they were kind to him after Joyce’s passing. She excuses herself to the kitchen to make the call.

He goes to the bedroom to retrieve a nice outfit to give the funeral director and finds one already laid out on the end of the bed—a pair of tan slacks, a pale purple button up and the grey sweater he’s seen both men wear on occasion. He lets his fingers trace over the red letters on the fabric for a moment before he folds the items up. On the floor there’s a pair of shiny brown loafers with paisley socks tucked in them. He adds them to the bundle in his arm and carries it all back toward the den.

The EMTs have gone while he was out of the room. The sheriff is still in the kitchen—away from the body, he reasons—which is understandable. He passes by without comment and enters the den. He sinks down to sit on the coffee table across from the body and waits. The man he has come to know isn’t reflected in what he sees. So much of Wilson was his kindness and exasperation, always there in equal parts, especially when he was around Greg. He spares a thought for the man Wilson has left behind. He hopes the sheriff won’t get another call tonight about an accident on a sharp turn somewhere on the outskirts of town.

The funeral home director arrives before long and gently apologizes for Eugene’s loss. He nods vacantly, thinking that he’s not really the one that lost someone tonight. The man speaks in a hushed tone as he explains what will happen next. It feels like he is trying not to disturb the dead man on the couch, which Eugene finds a bit silly. He is asked if he’s had enough time. He says yes, but it’s never enough.

The man encourages him to wait in the hallway as they remove the body. Eugene agrees and watches as two removal technicians in black suits enter the house with their rolling cot and sheets. They are quick and quiet. In less than five minutes, the men are gone and the den is empty. The director assures him that his friend is in good hands. He leaves Eugene with a packet of information and tells him to come to the funeral home whenever he is ready to start finalizing the arrangements.

Eugene watches the van turn out of the gravel drive and returns to the kitchen. The sheriff is standing by the window. He clears his throat to get her attention. She shakes from her thoughts and heads for the door. She gives her condolences a final time and then leaves. Once she is gone, he exhales. It feels like his first breath since he arrived.

He calls Greg.

“They’re gone.”

The line goes dead again. He bustles around the house, trying to find anything useful he can do. He makes some coffee, despite the late hour, and lights the fire in the front room. He looks into the den again. The funeral home technicians have left a single rose on the now vacant couch. He picks it up, sticks it into the vase on the mantle and carries it to the table in the breakfast nook. He sips his cup of coffee and lets his eyes trace over the soft petals. He doesn’t remember them leaving a rose behind after Joyce had been taken away, but those memories are softer now.

He hears the motorcycle and then the door open. Greg’s stuttering gait echoes through the empty house and he stops in the kitchen.

“I’ll go tomorrow to make arrangements. Anything in particular either of you wanted?”

Greg shakes his head.

“Okay.”

“He was Jewish.”

He nods, understanding. “Okay.”

Greg limps away and he hears the bedroom door shut. Eugene wonders if he should call Tommy to fetch him, but he thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad a thing for him to stay. He picks up his coffee cup and moves to the living room, where the fire is merrily crackling in the grate. He finds a book of crossword puzzles in the caddy beside the couch. He scrounges up a pencil and begins to fill in the squares.

* * *

The next two weeks pass quickly. He keeps the shop closed. It’s the end of fishing season. Not many people are coming in to stock up at this point, anyway. He goes out to fish every morning, but he has other duties in the afternoon to keep him occupied.

Tommy drives him everywhere he needs to go. He makes arrangements at the funeral home and forgoes a service. No one would come except him, he thinks. He buys a plot in the municipal cemetery on the edge of town and instructs the good people at Esopus Bend Funeral Home to send his friend there. He picks out a simple casket and gravestone. He fills out the paperwork and realizes for the first time that he never learned his friend’s full name. He puts the only information he knows on the stone—‘Wilson’. He has them include the date of death and makes sure there’s room for more, in case Greg ever wants to add anything else. He’s pretty sure Wilson wouldn’t want it any other way, though.

He has Tommy take him to the cabin once a day. He wants to make sure that Greg hasn’t offed himself dramatically or fled the area never to be seen again. Sometimes he hears the man around the house and once or twice the motorcycle is gone from the drive, but he never sets eyes on his friend. He leaves information on the kitchen table as he gets it and finds it missing each time he returns. A pamphlet for the cemetery. A receipt for the grave marker. Paperwork from the funeral home. After a few days, Greg starts to leave items for him. The first is a scribbled note with the name _James Evan Wilson._

He cobbles together a short obituary for his friend. He doesn’t have nearly enough information to make it a good one, but now that he has a full name it’s nice enough. He promised Wilson he wouldn’t write an exposé on him, after all.

He clips it out of the paper and leaves it for Greg after it goes to print.

The next item left at the table is the name and phone number of an attorney in town.

Eugene calls the attorney and discovers that Wilson did, in fact, have a will. He’s surprised when the man on the phone tells him that he is the only person that is a beneficiary. He feels a headache coming on when the man tells him that they are going to have to take the will to probate and that there are likely to be many hoops to jump through along the way. The good news, the man says, is that probate is shorter when a will is involved. The attorney generously offers to take care of everything. He describes how pleasant Wilson had been when he had come into his office earlier in the month, despite his obviously declining condition. Eugene realizes then that Wilson must have done a lot of preparatory work to ensure that Greg could continue living unencumbered by the realities they had fled from in their previous lives. He thanks the attorney and moves on to his next of many more tasks, happy to let that one move to the back burner.

He makes a list of bills that Wilson must have been paying to keep the cabin operational. He fights with people on the phone at the utility companies and lies his way through the situation. They take pity on the old man who can’t remember his online passwords and he eventually gets all the bills transferred onto his own bank account. He makes sure the house stays warm and lit for Greg.

One day he finds Wilson’s driver’s license on the table. He has Tommy drive him to the DMV with death certificate in hand and waits for what feels like hours until he is able to update the records and have it cancelled. He discovers that Wilson never had a motorcycle driver’s license and he laughs.

* * *

His to-do list starts to dry up after a few weeks and he decides the only item left is to take care of Greg. He doesn’t exactly know how he’s going to go about doing it, but knows it must be done. He has Tommy drive him to the grocery store and instead of dropping him at home, he makes the kid take him back to the cabin. Greg’s bike is in the drive, which is the first hurdle cleared.

He thanks Tommy for the lift and lets himself into the house. It’s quiet, but that’s par for the course these days. He takes the food into the kitchen and sets everything out as he starts cooking. He spots the ancient radio on top of the fridge from the corner of his eye. He prods it to life with some percussive maintenance and moves the dial to the jazz station. He prepares the meal to the sounds of the Stan Getz Quartet and Ron Carter. He makes entirely too much food. The portions are huge for two people, especially when considering that one of them is elderly and the other is most likely extremely depressed. He shrugs it off and plates out two portions.

“Food’s ready!” He yells. He takes the plates to the table and sits so he can look out the window. November is more than half over and they haven’t had their first snow yet. He’s glad for that much, at least. Everything is worse in the snow.

He can hear Greg approaching from the hallway. The man enters the room and looks at him suspiciously from the doorway.

“Pork chops, mac and cheese and green beans. Got biscuits, too.” He says, through a bite.

Greg settles in the chair across from him and picks at the food carefully. The man has clearly lost some weight. He looks haggard, although Eugene wasn’t expecting much else. He knows Greg was the chef in the relationship, but he wonders if maybe Wilson was the reason he cooked at all. He feels a bit smug when Greg takes his first bite.

“I need a favor.” He says. The jazz music plays faintly across the room. Greg looks at him with those piercing eyes as he chews. “You have two options. One, you can cook me a Thanksgiving meal next week. Two, you can accompany me to Albany for my family’s get together. Your choice.”

Greg narrows his eyes. “Neither. They both sound like no fun.”

“Well, I know the option with six grown children vying for my forgiveness sounds like it would be a real drag, but I’m pretty sure I can get the majority of them to cry if I try hard enough.”

Greg lifts an eyebrow.

“I can even tell you which ones—” He raises four fingers and ticks them off as he rolls through the list. “Veronica, Deb, Christy, and Tim.”

“Never pegged Tim as a crier.” Greg jokes.

“Well, you haven’t met him. You’ll realize your mistake the moment you see him.”

Greg huffs and continues eating. He lets the silence stretch out between them and enjoys the music. Baby steps, he thinks. All he needs from tonight is to make sure Greg has a full belly.

He clears his plate and starts cleaning up the mess he’s left strewn throughout the kitchen. Greg grabs a second helping of mac and cheese and fiddles with the radio until he finds the classic rock station before he returns to his place at the table. Eugene cleans the rest of the dishes, happy enough with the music selection, and sets up the coffee maker after the leftovers are packed away in the fridge.

“Oreos?” He asks while he pours his coffee into a chipped mug.

“Sure.” Greg stands and dumps his plate into the now empty sink.

Eugene grabs the package from the shopping bag beside the counter and returns to the table. He’ll let Greg clean his own plate. He’s a big boy.

He munches on an Oreo and watches the other man pour himself a coffee.

“You trying to be my dad or something?” Greg asks, his eyes focused on the drink in front of him.

Eugene shrugs. “No. I have enough kids, as you well know.”

“Did he set you up to be my new guardian angel?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Why are you still hanging around, then?”

“I’m lonely. You’re lonely. Just figured your chef and doctor skills could be put to good use keeping track of someone like me.”

Greg staggers back to his chair and picks up an Oreo. “That’s what your many kids are for.” He pulls the cookie apart and inspects both sides before squishing it back together and eating it in one bite.

“Ugh, but they’re insufferable.”

Greg snorts. “Like I’m not?”

He looks at the man across from him seriously. Greg looks back at him, his shrewd eyes searching Eugene’s features. “No, you’re not.”

* * *

Amazingly enough, Greg agrees to go to Albany with him for Thanksgiving. Veronica is clearly surprised to find Greg at her dad’s house when she arrives to pick him up, but she doesn’t mention it. She shuttles them the hour away to Christy’s pale yellow house in some quaint suburb. The car ride is a strained affair. Everyone is clearly replaying the day when Greg shouted all about the kids’ plan to re-home him in an assisted living facility. Wilson’s absence doesn’t help matters. Eugene is sure he would be the one to smooth things over between Greg and Veronica, but he can’t be bothered to start such a conversation.

He’ll always love his children. Even some secretive plan that he would never agree to can’t change that fact. Unfortunately, the indignity has left him a little sore and he’s not quite ready to forgive and forget. He’s lucky Greg caught the memory loss, otherwise he definitely would have forgotten by now, he realizes.

His prediction is correct. Veronica, Deb, Christy, and Tim all cry before the night is over. Greg watches the whole event with obvious glee. Eugene thinks that this is probably the most fun his friend has had in over a month. He takes Veronica aside at one point to comfort her, afraid that if he doesn’t at least attempt to smooth things over then she’ll refuse to drive them home. She tearily apologizes again for not telling him about the other kids’ plan to send him away. He pats her on her shoulder and gives her a hug. She must think the best way out of this situation is to do penance, because she offers to resume their Sunday night dinners and shopping trips. He tells her that it’s too much trouble for her to drive all that way each week and he’s enjoyed doing things on his own for the past month.

Greg charms a few grandchildren throughout the evening, pulling quarters from ears and noses and telling slightly too-graphic stories when the adults aren’t listening. He wonders what his children think of this strange man he has brought to their family event, but he doesn’t care enough to ask any of them.

Veronica drives them home. She asks a few times on the trip back to Esopus Creek if he’s sure she can’t stop by on Sunday. He refuses politely again and again until Greg groans loudly from the back and says in no uncertain terms that she has been replaced. Eugene laughs and then launches quickly into a story about Tommy mistaking Epsom salt for table salt on their last shopping trip. Greg ends up rolling his eyes at the kid’s naiveté and muttering that there must be something in the water.

Veronica drops them off and leaves without any more apologies. Greg mounts his bike, which he left leaning in the driveway earlier that morning. There are a few orange and brown leaves stuck to it in various spots, dropped from the trees overhead.

“You know you’re going to have to find some other mode of transportation pretty soon. Can’t drive that thing in the winter,” he reasons.

“What, you have a corner on the Tommy-market? He’s all booked up with your chauffeur service?”

He chuckles. “Yeah pretty much.”

Greg rolls his eyes and starts the engine. He nods his goodbye as he leaves the driveway.

* * *

A few weeks into December, he gets a phone call from the attorney. He can’t remember the last time they spoke. He had contacted Eugene a few times to ask about some of Wilson’s assets, including a sizeable apartment in New Jersey, but he hadn’t been much help to the man.

“I have great news!”

“Oh, what about?”

“We’ve just finalized the appraisals on all of Dr. Wilson’s out-of-state assets. All we have left on the list is the property in Esopus. Once we’ve got that one knocked out, then we’ll submit our written report to the court. We’ll be distributing the estate early in the new year.”

Eugene is nonplussed. He’s sure that Wilson had named him as his only beneficiary because he couldn’t name Greg. There’s not much excitement waiting for him on the other side of this process, but he’s happy the attorney seems to be having a good time. He thanks the man and quickly forgets about the phone call.

* * *

Over one of their regular Sunday dinners, Greg stops eating long enough to ask him to find a buyer for Wilson’s motorcycle.

“It’s the wrong time of year to sell a bike,” he says confidently. “Can’t test drive it in these conditions.”

Greg snorts at him. “I guess we’ll just have to find someone idiotic enough to buy it without a test drive.”

Eugene realizes the perfect solution at the same moment Greg seems to.

“Tommy,” they say in unison. He smiles at the mischief written clear across his friend’s face.

After the meal is over, he dials up his errand boy. Greg has started clearing dishes from the table and whistling happily as he moves around the kitchen.

“Hey, Mr. Skinner. Ready for me to drive you home?”

“I sure am, Tommy.”

“Cool! I’ll be over in ten.”

They hang up and Eugene starts to wash the dishes. He waves off Greg’s ‘help’ and tells him to go outside and take the cover off the bike. They need it to look as appealing as possible to really entice Tommy to this ridiculous plan. After the kitchen is sufficiently cleaned, he throws on his coat and walks out to the drive. Tommy has already arrived and he’s chatting cheerfully with Greg as they stand with the motorcycle between them.

“Hey, Tommy!” He greets. “What are you two doing out here in the cold looking at that old thing?” He asks teasingly.

Greg looks at him sharply. Reminding him to play it cool, probably. Eugene tries his best to be surreptitious, but it’s hard not to laugh at the scene. There are remnants of the season’s first snow in the grass around them, but he’s sure that won’t stop Greg from making a sale.

He watches the master at work. He lists the specs and features on the bike and makes special note to ham it up when he mentions how Wilson wouldn’t want it to sit in the drive collecting dust. Tommy nods along and says how he’s always wanted a bike. Greg gently covers the machine in the all-weather tarp and says that maybe, when the time is right, they’ll be able to work out a deal. He glumly walks away to return to the cabin. Eugene bundles himself into the cab of Tommy’s truck and listens to the kid continue musing over an imagined future with a motorcycle.

“Boy, that would be a cool Christmas gift to yourself, huh?” He says.

Tommy quickly agrees. “Yeah, man. Totally.”

Three days later, he hears a car honking in his driveway. He walks out on the porch to find Greg in the driver’s seat of an old navy blue Pontiac Grand Am.

“Where did you get that hunk of junk?” He calls.

Greg revs the engine and pops his head out the window. “Santa!”

* * *

He skips Christmas with his kids. He’s invited to Christy’s, like usual, but he tells them he’ll be out of town. They are shocked and disbelieving in equal measure, but it’s the truth. He has a better offer this year.

Greg drives him to Ithaca for the holiday weekend and accompanies him to the city’s Winter Jazz Fest. It’s a poorly attended event, generally speaking, but the music is superb. He can’t remember when he last saw such proficient musicians perform live. He enjoys every second of the trip, including the snarky comments that come from his companion throughout the weekend. They avoid the holiday as best they can and choose to eat Chinese food for most of their meals. On Christmas Day, Eugene slides a small envelope from his jacket and passes it across the table.

“For you.”

“Santa already brought me my gift,” he replies with a wink.

“This one’s not from Santa.”

Greg takes it and tears the envelope open. The 4x6 photo slips out into his waiting hand. The man stares at it with clear, unblinking eyes.

“I know you didn’t bring much with you from your past lives. Figured you might not have any good photos of him.” He shrugs.

Greg carefully puts the photo back into the envelope and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thanks, old man.”

* * *

They pick up a pretty regular pattern now that Greg has a semi-reliable vehicle. They cook for one another on alternating Sundays and Greg calls him every so often to ask if he needs a ride anywhere. He rarely takes him up on the offer. Eugene works on fabricating fishing lures at home during the winter months, so he doesn’t need to visit the store much.

He’s finishing up work on a new neon purple marabou jig one Sunday when Greg is in charge of dinner. The man asks him an endless list of questions about the process until finally Eugene has had enough.

“Do you want me to just teach you how to make one?”

Greg looks up from the stock pot. “No.”

“Are you sure? It seems like you do.”

“I don’t.”

He sighs loudly and focuses back on the delicate item between his fingers. After less than a minute, Greg speaks up again.

“But how does that kind of lure ‘breathe’ more. It’s a ridiculous concept.”

He groans. “Sit down already and I’ll show you!”

“Can’t. Soup’s on.” He gestures down in front of him.

Eugene gets up and brings the lure over to the stove. He holds the colorful bauble in front of Greg’s face. “Touch it.”

Greg raises his eyebrow and uses the wooden spoon in his hand to tap at the little guppy shaped piece of silicone nestled amongst the feathers. “Don’t drop that in my stew.”

He explains the jig to Greg as best he can. He talks through how it would move in the current or in the wind and why they’re so much more fluid than other types of lures and preferred by lots of anglers. Halfway through the lecture, Greg takes the reading glasses from the top of his head to inspect the lure more closely in the oven light. He plucks it out of Eugene’s fingers and asks what metal he uses as weight. He asks about the feathers, guessing correctly that they originate from a turkey. The inspection goes on long enough that Eugene takes hold of the spoon to give the stew a stir. It’s the first time that he has ever seen Greg show genuine interest in anything to do with fishing. Interestingly enough, it’s not the last.

* * *

At the end of January, the attorney calls again.

“Hello, Mr. Skinner. I’ve got more good news for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“The judge ruled for probate to be closed. All the federal and state tax returns have been filed and the estate is now ready to be dissolved and divided.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t really know what any of that means. He feels his eyes glaze over from just that bit of information.

“If you could come into the office sometime in the next week, I can talk you through it all and lay out all the assets which are now yours.”

“Sure.” He thinks that this might be the last piece of unsettled business left behind by Wilson. If it wasn’t so dry a topic he’d feel a bit of regret at the man’s last monetary ties to this Earth finally fading away. Unfortunately, Eugene has never been a money man and he doesn’t have many thoughts to spare on the whole concept of probate and estate planning.

“Thank you, Mr. Skinner.”

He disconnects and calls Greg.

“What?”

“I need a ride this week.”

“It’ll cost you a nickel,” Greg teases.

He grins. “Never mind. I’ll call Tommy.”

“Ah! He’ll probably show up on that death trap he got from god knows where!” he moans. “I guess I’ll do it free of charge. You are precious cargo, after all.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Tuesday?”

“Yeah, Tuesday is fine.”

Greg hangs up without saying goodbye, like always.

* * *

On Tuesday, he ventures to the attorney’s office. He tells Greg to wait for him in the parking lot, which makes his friend pitch a fit.

“But, mom!”

Eugene rolls his eyes and promises he won’t be long. He shuts the door as his friend continues to whine. He knows Greg doesn’t want to go anywhere near a lawyer. Eugene doesn’t want to go anywhere near him either.

The attorney is all smiles when he arrives. He guides him into the office and invites him to sit on one of the plush chairs near the coffee table. The man shuffles through a stack of files on his desk and brings one of considerable size to Eugene. He sits down in the other chair beside him.

“Here’s a complete catalog of all the assets Dr. Wilson left you. It includes all properties and possessions in his care at the time of his death, including the apartment in New Jersey. His monetary assets and stocks were equally divided between you and two departments within the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. If you have any questions I’ll do my best to answer them, but all the information should be there for you. There’s also two items he left with his will for me to disperse after the probate process. One is a letter for you. The other is a letter labeled ‘House.’ He said you would know how to deliver that one. They are both in the folder. Any questions?”

Eugene grips the folder a bit tighter and nods his head. “Thank you for all your help.”

“No problem at all. Dr. Wilson was certainly a wonderful man. If I hadn’t already known from our brief conversations before his passing, I sure know it now. I was all too happy to do it.”

He shakes the attorney’s hand and leaves, folder tucked under his arm.

He jumps into the Grand Am and tells Greg to take him back to the cabin.

“My cabin? I’m not cooking for you, old man. I’m already mid-favor at this very moment.”

“House. Come on.” He looks down at the folder in his lap.

Greg ceases any further protest he was about to voice at the use of his surname. Eugene knows that it is the first time anyone has called him that since Wilson died. Greg shifts the car into gear. He can see the other man’s eyes track over to the file a few times on the drive, but he doesn’t ask any questions.

They arrive and Eugene follows Greg inside. They move by habit to the kitchen and he puts the folder down on the table. Greg stands uneasily near the window and watches as he sits in his usual chair.

“As I’m sure you know, Wilson left me everything. I assume it’s because he legally couldn’t leave it to you.” He looks up to see Greg nod. “Well, we’re going to have to put our heads together at some point and come up with a way to pass it to you once I kick the bucket. My kids are going to be greedy little bastards about all this.” He gestures at the file as he opens it. “I won’t be here forever and you don’t seem the type for living off the land once they sell the property out from under you.”

He looks at the file in front of him and sees the full list of everything he now technically owns. It’s more considerable than he imagined.

“Did you know he was leaving money to the hospital, too?”

Greg nods again. “For his little bald kids. He was always a sucker for their sob stories.”

“And for the Diagnostic Department, too.” He points down at the page in front of him.

Greg hobbles over to take a closer look. He whistles, long and loud. “Wowie. They better name some shit after him for that one. I didn’t realize he had that much squirreled away. I would have been making him foot all the bills.”

“You weren’t already doing that?” He raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“Jeeze, you’re a ball-buster.”

He flips through the pages of paperwork. He finds the two promised envelopes paperclipped to the back. “He left a letter for you.”

Greg reaches out and picks it up. He rubs it gently between his fingers and leaves the room without another word.

Eugene sighs and picks up his own letter. He opens it carefully and begins to read.

_Eugene,_

_I want to thank you for everything. If you are receiving this letter then that means two things. One, you haven’t seen me for a few months and two, all my affairs are now settled. I hope that it hasn’t been too much trouble, this whole legal ordeal. It was never my intention to get you involved in it, but as I started to see the end approach, I realized House wasn’t going to be up to the task. He has never been a fan of rules and regulations and now that he’s not exactly a free man it’s an even more accurate description._

_I can’t predict the future, but I’d like to think I know House pretty well by now. I took your advice and made him promise me he’d stick around for at least a little while. I hope he has made it long enough to receive his letter, too. If not…I trust you to do one last thing for me and burn it. I wouldn’t recommend reading it before you do. There’s no juicy gossip inside, just some ramblings and declarations of love. You know, the usual._

_If House kept his promise, then I am sure he is now a near constant thorn in your side. I hope you give him just as much grief as he gives you. All the advice I can give from my twenty years of experience is this:_

_-He’s always listening_

_-He’s always learning_

_-He’s always hurting_

_Thank you again for being such a wonderful friend to us these past few weeks. I am writing this only a few days after we saw you in the river for what I now know was the last time. I wish I had given you a hug that morning before you left. And I wish I had been well enough to invite you over for dinner once more. There’s just never enough time, I suppose._

_The pliers and chairs you loaned us are in the laundry room on the shelf. I hope you put them to future use for many seasons to come._

_All my best wishes and gratitude._

_Wilson_

Eugene blinks to clear his vision. He folds the letter away in his pocket and walks over to the phone. He calls Tommy and asks if he can get a ride home.

* * *

He doesn’t see Greg for a full week, which makes him a bit nervous, but then on the following Tuesday he hears the Grand Am honking from his driveway. Before he can rouse himself from the crossword he is working on, he hears Greg loudly bang past the front door.

“Okay, Eugene! Teach me the wonders of lure craftmanship!” He yells.

* * *

Their regular pattern grows to accommodate Greg’s newfound interest in their shared hobby. The man still proclaims loudly and often that fishing is for idiots and that it isn’t a real sport, but he latches onto the detailed work of making lures like a man possessed. As April draws closer, the number of lures that he’ll have available for sale in the shop has nearly tripled from the usual. He makes sure to mark all of Greg’s lures with a special dot on the price tag. He tells his friend that it’s so he can divide the proceeds up fairly, but Greg just brushes him off.

“Please, I’m already your ward. Any profit I make goes to you anyway in the hopes that I may one day buy my freedom.”

Eugene playfully slaps him on the back of the head. “You’ve got a long way to go if that’s your goal, my friend.”

He somehow wrangles Greg into helping him set up the shop before the start of the season. He’s not the most useful person to have on hand. Certainly Tommy would have been a better pick, but Greg did bring Oreos and that has to count for something.

On the first day of April, he ventures out to the river. His form is rusty after the long months of disuse, but no one is around to critique him. He packs up to go open the shop a bit earlier than normal, sure there will be quite a crowd in this first week of the season. Greg is already inside when he arrives. He’s behind the worktable, threading some feathers onto a dull pink lure.

“So you work here now?”

“Yeah.”

And that’s that. Greg is his first hire since he used to employ his kids during their high school days. Unlike his kids, though, he’s actually knowledgeable when it comes to the stock. He’s not any good at answering questions from customers since he still loves to share how stupid fishing is, but people seem to like his gruff personality. The kids especially like that he goofs around with the little silicone fish they sell. He catches his friend with a so-called ‘fish booger’ more than once, and there’s always a small child or two nearby giggling at the act.

He gets a phone call one night that summer out of the blue from someone that identifies himself as Dr. Foreman. At first he thinks it’s a follow up call about his thyroid medication, but the man quickly course corrects the conversation.

“I was a colleague of Dr. James Wilson.”

“Oh,” he says, a little perplexed.

“I’m not sure if you’re the correct person to be talking to about this, but I did some digging and found out Wilson named you the beneficiary in his will.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” He looks into the kitchen, where Greg is cooking him dinner. They now eat together two or three times a week. He suspects the number will probably grow as long as Greg continues being a good employee and an only slightly infuriating friend. They have yet to grow tired of each other and he figures by this point it’s pretty much a lost cause. They’re basically stuck together.

“I figured you must have been close after he left us here at Princeton-Plainsboro. I wanted to let you know that because of the generous donation in his will, we are naming the new hospice wing after him. The James E. Wilson Hospice Center.”

“Oh, that’s very nice. I think he would have liked that.”

“The cornerstone will be placed next weekend in a small ceremony. In case you or—” the man clears his throat, “—any of Wilson’s other friends would like to come.

“I’ll take that into consideration, thank you.”

They say polite goodbyes and Eugene shuffles into the kitchen.

“You were right.”

“About the little eyeballs on the X-Rap Slashbait being extra creepy. Yeah, I know.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, about them naming some stuff after Wilson. Just got a call from a Dr. Foreman. Want to go see them break ground on the James E. Wilson Hospice Center next week?”

Greg smiles to himself. “Nah. I bet it’s a sting operation. They’ll never take me alive.”

* * *

They don’t go, but the next time he is over at Greg’s cabin there is an article proudly displayed on the fridge. It’s a nice little write up all about the new hospice wing at Princeton-Plainsboro. It’s a puff piece, but there’s a good picture of Wilson included. It mentions a few employees that helped set the stone at the ceremony. He asks Greg about it.

“Did any of them actually like Wilson?”

“They all did.”

That sounds about right for the man he knew.

“I wonder what they did with the money he left for that other department.”

Greg looks off into the distance. “I’m sure it’s all been earmarked for malpractice suits.”

“Oh yeah? Sounds like your kind of department.”

“It was, once upon a time.”

Eugene nods, fitting together another piece of the puzzle. He hopes he lives long enough to unravel the whole story, but he’s sure it would take years to pry it completely from his friend.

“So no ‘Greg House Diagnostic Center’ in the future?”

“Why would they name anything that?”

Eugene looks over, confused. “That’s your name.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve been Greg Wilson for a while now.” A smile spreads across his friend’s face and he can’t help but do the same.

“That’s right. I must have forgotten. You better pack me off to the nursing home. I think my memory’s going again.”

“Not until I get all that money from you first, old man.” He pulls some food from the fridge to begin making dinner.

Eugene opens his crossword book to the half-filled puzzle he left behind on his last visit. “It’s a deal.”


End file.
